


| And So... | vers.2.0.

by Leszre



Series: The World of A/B/O through the Looking Glass [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: AU_Modern Setting, Alpha!_Elio, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Not Beta Read, Omega!_Oliver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:27:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 64,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23537614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leszre/pseuds/Leszre
Summary: COMPLETED.soft-core A/B/O verse, Slow-burn.[ Outline ]Eight years later from the end of CMBYN verse (the film), at a local cafe in NYC, Alpha!_Elio meets Omega!_Oliver, by a pure chance. In a different city, in different time. Many things have changed. Elio no longer a teenager with angst and anxiety. Oliver, now with a little girl, a respected academic in a society where being an omega has never been easy. Will their long pause button ofthat summerget a chance to re-ignite?
Relationships: Oliver & Elio Perlman, Oliver/Elio Perlman
Series: The World of A/B/O through the Looking Glass [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975822
Comments: 107
Kudos: 77





	1. Prologue. An Ode to a Long Paused Button

**Author's Note:**

> Let me start with–––,  
>  **Thank you** for indulging your curiosity to read my drabble. It means a LOT. More than enough, the honest truth.  
> But!  
> If you are not into ABO trope and have any issue with different interpretations, I sincerely and humbly request that you gently click “back” button (gently because regardless of which kind, it is your device, no need to take it out on your physical property. hehe). When I say I tend to spew out unconventional interpretations, I do really mean _unconventional_. And I sincerely do wish for all of you to continue enjoying other fabulous AO3 CMBYN authors’ work, I won’t hold it against you. Cross my heart.  
> .  
> And _Please_ do keep on being a valuable part of CMBYN fandom and carry on existing in this incredible shared collective experience.  
> .  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost at the end of Spring, Alpha!_Elio walks into a NYC local café called _Cafecito_ to find someone he never expected to meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: **T**  
> .  
> the parenthesis within the quotation marks in this chapter are used for French first,  
> then between Mini and Oliver, in Italian.   
> .  
> 

**Prologue. An Ode to a Long Paused Button**

**Present day | New York | at the end of Spring**

_Is There Such Thing as a Pure Chance?_

**Elio**

“Oof!”

Busying myself to shoulder-pass through the crowd of patron, it didn’t even occur to me to pay attention below the counter level. My hands reach forward automatically, getting hold of the warmth that rushed over me. The little girl sways a bit but doesn’t lose the balance.

“Are you alright?” I ask looking down.

“I’m sorry,” says the giant bright hazel eyes, with a barely-there maroon circle just outside the iris: an alpha. She looks up with bunched up eyebrows, a genuine apology, her hands a little damp.

“It’s okay, are you with your parents?” I ask her calmly.

Before I had a chance to properly tend to this young lady, a woman bumps into me. A price I pay for stepping into a small local coffee bar. The review was right: Very popular and crowded. When the woman turns around to apologize, “(I’m sorry),” then she changes quickly into coos, “awww––, (beautiful little butterfly, You must be very proud!)” says warmly.

Dumbfounded, I open and close my mouth a couple of times, as if I lost the capacity to formulate any come-back. Before I could say anything, she just passes us to stand in the **ORDER HERE** line. _What?!_ _How did she even know I’m fluent in French?_ _Merde_. I turn my attention back to the little girl and I realize her little fingers are holding my last two digits.

A blink.

Something about her warm small fingers on my hand zings some inexplicable echo in the middle of my chest.

“You said you came here with your parents?” I ask her, leaning forward a little, surrounded by rumbles of ambient noise.

“Yeah,” she looks up at me, two giant hazel eyes right at my eyes.

The little girl then goes on and tells me that this place is their favorite because of the scones and that her mother loves the Italian coffee brewed here. With a couple of missing baby teeth, she has this cute smile about her.

When I ask her where her parent is, she pivots on the balls of her feet and effortlessly swivels. A familiar scent of subtle nuttiness and a tang hit my nose. She then raises her arm and points her little fore-finger. Following the little girl’s finger, I slowly stand up and––

I feel a seismic lurch in my chest. Yeah…my heart just involuntarily did an abrupt free dive down towards my feet.

Eight years later, by a pure chance, there he is, at the end of the direction she is pointing, sitting in the far corner table with his nose buried in something. With the same haircut, with two top buttons opened shirt, with a Star of David. _His_ Star of David. When she turns her head, another whiff of the same scent hits my nose. An official confirmation that I am not seeing another spectral image of him, that my eyes are not playing tricks on me.

I reposition my hand to hold her hand properly and offer to walk with her to bring her to him. The little one starts on first, tiny happy steps ahead, gently tugging at my hand.

“Mama––,” she leaps to him as she lets go of my hand when we get close.

“Yes, sweetheart,” says her mother looking down directly from what he was working on the table, “I’m very proud of you. Did you wash––"

His gaze does this sweep from the bottom through the length of my body, finally stopping at my eye level. For a brief second, a look of utter shock comes on his face. His hands and upper body autonomously respond to his daughter’s grip, pulling her in close to him but he doesn’t say anything, as if someone just pressed a pause button on his expression. Time slows.

“Hi, Oliver,” I say to him.

His bright blue eyes are now two fully-blown black holes. Without a blink, holding my gaze, a single word escapes his parted lips.

“h…Hi.”

*

**Oliver**

Since Wednesday, she made me promise to take her to our favorite little coffee bar this weekend. When it comes to her wishes, I could never say “no.” And I spent too much time away from her towards the end of this semester. I felt it was justifiably okay for her to be treated for her good behavior. Even knowing that there still are some administrative stuff that needs to be done by the close of this week, though the end of semester was a few days back, I agree to take her down to get her favorite scones. Who said being a university professor was easy? Not even a half an hour ago, I bunched up the paperwork along with my tablet and shoved them down my shoulder bag. On the way to the café, Mini jollily skips and hums the songs she learned. As we pass the artfully hand-written “today’s special” chalk board, the front door is folded away as usual.

“I think we made it just in time before the brunch crowd,” I say to her, pushing the 180 degree hinge half door. She quickly turns her head and spots an empty corner spot and exuberantly yay-es.

We make ourselves comfortable and Tom brings out our usual order. She is all giddy seeing her favorite: the scones. Tom’s little comments like, “I saved the best one out of the oven for you,” puts her in a mood for trying different types of scones without a side glance or a scrunch between her eyebrows. Today, they are Marion berries. I thank Tom before he busies himself back behind the counter. Sure enough, as if on cue, the brunch crowd and late morning caffeine chasers swarm.

“What are these called?” Mini asks pointing her little chubby finger near the berries.

I pause and take in her two hazel eyes looking up at me. As if on cue, her head tilts a little and two beautiful globes blink. I feel my cheek muscle reaction involuntarily into a soft smile.

“Marion berries,” I answer softly.

She tilts her head a bit more and mumbles, repeating the words, “mary-ong?”

“yes, pup. Mae-rhee-on, they are like cousins of blackberries.”

Immediately, I see a light bulb coming on inside her head, as her face expression changes into something I have witnessed so many times over. Something that keeps me going. Before I even have a chance to reminisce about the life I should have lived—the face, the look, the smile...something no word or phrase can possibly describe that are permanently etched in my head—she giggles and mouths the syllables as I break it down for her.

Not too long ago, Mini learned the meaning of being independent from one of her classes. And today, she insists that she’d go to the bathroom herself. She even turns down my offer of ‘I’ll-stand-outside-the-bathroom’ while she is there. “I’m a big girl now,” she chides me, flicking her curls, with a quick pointed side glance. I concede. As she walks away from our table, I make sure to follow the back of her head. She trots along to the counter and asks for the bathroom access fob, tiptoes herself up so she could get the key in her hand, says her 'thank you,' then walks the rest of L shape of the café into the single person bathroom stall of the two. When the door closes behind her, I quickly busy myself trying to get some done before she returns. My hand automatically reaches for still warm espresso cup. My eyes on the black screen which turns bright at my swipe.

A sip.

Coffee brewed here always reminds me of coffee I had in B. Frankly, I haven’t tried every possible café around NYC but, for me, it is as close as it could get to the original. Maybe Tom is from Italy? My shoulder automatically shrugs a little and offers an answer to my own internal question which arose from a stream of my own countless thoughts. I don’t know. One day I might ask him. And I immediately break out into clandestine chuckles, under my breath. Is this what being a parent led me to become? Having an internal conversation by myself?

Just enough chocolaty dark roast liquid coats every corner of my tongue and my hand automatically puts a distance between the porcelain cup and my nose. And oddly, in a unexpected swiftness, spearmint and sweet-musk hit my nose. A scent I’ve never dreamed to smell again. My head lifts following the all-too-familiar-yet-hard-to-forget scent no matter how long it has been.

“Mama––.”

Behind my little girl, something I have been only seeing as a part of my imagination comes into my view. I feel my lips part. My breath hitches right under my throat.

*

Standing in an impeccable semi-casual black slack and a bomber jacket over a dark heather grey round neck T-shirt is––

Elio–.

Even years later, I instantly recognize the lines of his neck muscles and tendons are creating. Too intimately. A thin gold chain was peering above the neck line of his shirt. He is still wearing his Star of David. Did I even greet him?

Mini explains what happened and invites Elio to sit with us. The exuberance of her candor and innocence throw both adults involved off our grown-up composure, plummets it straight to the plains of a dumb-founded stasis. Elio hesitates a bit as if he is debating but she smiles; her eyes disappear and form the loveliest crescent moons over those blush-pink tinted cheekbones. Mini knows exactly what she needs to do to get what she wants. Her short seven years of life, no one—I mean, _no one_ —has been able to say 'no' once she smiles.

Her little hand grabs a napkin and places it over one of the scones. She struggles a bit trying _not_ to touch the pastry directly with her fingers. For Mini, etiquette is very important. I patiently let Mini to do her bidding while keeping my attentive eye, ready to help her out if she were to ask for assistance. Or about to drop a scone on the floor. Elio beams at her effort and seems to enjoy her fussabout; how important showing proper table manner is. That though he is not a family, for Mini, he deserves to be fretted over with such fashion. That Mini _wants_ to impress Elio. That she likes him already. Even in the midst of this... _our_ awkward meeting, somehow, he appears to have understood her with no need for an explanation.

Without any outwardly request, a server brings out another freshly brewed cup. Oh, Tom. I look over to the counter and Tom just gives me a gentle incline with his chin. I mouth _thank you_ and Tom disappears into the kitchen.

I ask the serving staff to place it for Elio and before I have a chance to thank her, Mini pipes up and says a delightful, “thank you!” Three adults around the table break out into affectionate laughs. A magic of innocence.

Long lashes casting low, Elio brings up his cup and compliments the coffee even before taking a sip. Then he offers his guess that the beans must have been roasted in Italian way. As if we have been doing this all along. Meeting up for brunch, having a casual conversation. All the while, I am struggling to make sense of the fact that this is _really_ Elio sitting in front of us. Not an apparition. _Really_ him.

Elio watches as Mini splits her scone with a fork around the middle, (the method I showed her when she turned five), carefully poking with her mindfully held utensil. Once it opens up, she then attentively spreads a decent amount of jelly, after picking one out of the house jelly selection, on the bottom piece. She looks up at me with a sheepish expression, putting her fingers in her mouth. Oh, yes, she knows she wasn't normally allowed to indulge in such way. I lift my cloth napkin and Mini gives me a goofy grin, as I gently wipe her fingers with a knowing look. Because, of course, she is clearly aware she just got away with it.

Two adults just sit there as Mini starts biting happily into the warm scone. In between her bites, after a sip of her chocolate milk, Mini repeats the information about the very dessert she is enjoying. Elio, surprisingly, is very receptive of her jabbers. After Mini downs two and half scones, she rubs at her eyes and gently pulls on my shirt. When I turn to her, she quietly says she wants the cuddle.

I lean down a little and, “Ellie-baby, you wanted to come out here,” I say quietly.

“But I’m sleepy,” I think it's the chocolate milk that did it. Well, she was quite generous with her jelly spread, too.

“Do you want to go home and take a nap?” I ask warmly in a hushed tone.

Maybe I am trying to find an out. She shakes her head, yawning. Little droplets hang at the end of her eyes after she closes her mouth. Mini looks up at me, pouting a little. I can never say ‘no,’ to her. I sigh a small happy sigh of surrender, before I extend my hands.

“Come here,” I say to her softly.

With a practiced ease, I scoop her up, swung her legs away, towards the window-side and she folds herself comfortably in my arms. She puts her fingers through the openings between my shirt buttons, nuzzling her head fully against my chest.

“(I love you to the moon and the whole ride along the Milky way), Mama.”

I whisper our little ritual phrases in Italian into her ear and gently press a kiss on the top of her head.

The whole time, I can tell Elio is looking at us, though I cannot dare to glance his way to confirm. In my peripheral vision, Elio looks as though he is paying close attention in a calm and doting manner. After he feels that Mini is comfortably situated in my lap, he leans in a little and starts a conversation. Does he also know that my heart is about to leap out of my chest? My calm demeanor exterior be damned.

“How are you?” asks Elio.

“Good, good,” I answer a beat quicker than I would have liked, almost feeling like I’m fumbling over my own words, “How are you?”

“yeah, doing good,” says Elio, sipping on the espresso, his hazel eyes on me.

Not knowing how or what to talk about we just sit there. Mini falls fast sleep in my embrace. Elio proceeds to picking at his scone. A tension hanging between us. We both know it but neither of us is brave enough to mention it or dare to break it. I run my palm gently through Mini’s curly hair. And all I can think about is that it is surreal to hear his voice again, up this close.

“Are those for coming semester?” asks Elio with a slight tilt towards the papers.

“…Yeah,” thankfully, I don’t lose a capacity to offer an answer. Tips of Elio’s lips quirk up. Only just.

For some reason, the way Elio is looking at me is…

“Are you still at Columbia?” asks Elio straightening his back a little, his long pianist fingers gently drawing circles on the outside of the warm cup.

My mouth is getting dry. So I hum with a slight nod, as an answer, as I swallow.

Another pause fills between us.

“So what brings you here?” It is as mutual question as any, I reason to myself, trying to reassure in the messy-and-blank-at-the-same-time head. When have I become so anxious about the silence?

Elio tucks in his chin a bit with a barely there huff under his breath, “I’m starting at NYU this fall. I came early to get acclimated,” says nonchalantly.

“here?” I ask, a pitch too high. I clear my throat and, “In New York?”

“yeah,” the corner of Elio’s lips, this time, quirks up visibly but he doesn’t toss any of his usual quips.

I am clearly caught off-guard. Eight-years later, by a pure chance, he’s here. A local coffee bar. _We_ are here. Same city, same café. And he will be staying.

“I got some guest performances scheduled for New York Philharmonic and Juilliard.”

I only can offer ‘ah––’ as a response. I must look ridiculous.

Another pause colors the space as if it has been written, long long time ago.

“How’re your parents?” I manage to ask, after a couple of quick blinks.

Elio fills his lungs through his nose, “they are in Milan. My dad is about to retire. I think he is about to finish another book. And my mom had her exhibition very recently in Province.”

The modulated, nonplus tone. His voice matured since I saw him.

“Wow, you Perlmans are something,” I can’t help but to chuckle. Because I could picture Pro. and Annella, of their busy retired life-all too vividly, without any need for imagination.

“So how’s your wife?”

A blink. I freeze. Right... he wasn’t in the loop. I recompose myself as fast as I can manage and offer a small smile. I wonder whether Elio can see through me: me trying to temper my emotions in front of him.

“UWS shooting, two years ago.”

Elio takes in a sharp inhale.

“I’m so sorry,” Elio continues with a subdued sigh. He looks really affected by the news. Was it the trick of light?

I shake my head with a small smile, “don’t be, I bet she is happy wherever she is. Since she went with a bang with her alpha bravado and gusto intact.”

Elio’s smart watch ‘ting’-s. A single crystal clear chime. Without hesitation, Elio reaches for my phone, which was neglected laying on top of the table, and stretches out his arm. I look at my phone in his hand and up at Elio with a mild ‘huh?’ expression.

Elio flicks his wrist a little, my phone gently clutched in his grip, and says, “unlock it.”

Even for that short period, my eyes are only on his supple wrist. The part I worshiped. The soft patch of skin, I laid my lips over, countless times, all those years ago. Steady and unmoving. I lift my hand and placed it on the screen; while the busy thinking brain of mine deposits a thought that I am glad that I sat my left finger print instead of the right. Because my arm is holding the most precious thing on this earth. _I will never let go_. A whisper echoes in my head at the far far back. And I feel my arm muscles engage just right to secure her in close. Because I don’t want to wake Mini. Because… I don’t want this moment, Elio sitting here right in front of me, _You_ being here, to end.

My finger pad lifts like a sticky memo pad, reluctantly leaving the surface, Elio spins my phone around in his gently clasped hand, as he bends his arm inward a little. A smile blooms over his face at seeing the homescreen picture—me and Mini with a goofy smile with vanilla icing on our noses—before thumbing on the screen.

What breaks the slow-motion moment is the buzz that originates from Elio’s wrist unit. Elio quickly glances at his wrist and thumbs the face of my phone once more before handing it to me.

“Listen, I have a meeting–,” Elio says to me, doing what-seems-to-be so family swipe over his watch unit that is followed by a flick of his wrist, “it was nice seeing you both.”

“Yeah, me too,” I offer, not entirely being honest. I can’t help but feeling deflated.

He is leaving.

Already.

“Tell her I’ll see her again soon, hm?” Elio tosses those words as he gets up.

“Soon? Again?”

Elio smiles wide. And his gorgeous smile I've missed so much is followed by his trademark soft huff under his breath, before he says,

“yeah, soon.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ clarification ]  
> Technically, Marion Berry is a trademark name (from Oregon, US) of blackberry variety obtained via the traditional crossbreed hybridization.  
> .  
> ...uhm–––, _Hi–._  
>  I uh... I know no words existing in this universe can make you forgive my sudden disappearance (a total purge) a couple of months ago. And I am painfully aware that there is nothing I can do or say to make up for what I did without any notice or even a courtesy of explaining my behaviour. *long quiet sigh*  
> But... I am truly and deeply sorry. And... I guess this is my cautious attempt to find my way back. Because, regardless of how I reached my decision to drop out of the face of AO3, I thought I could let go of this part of me. I honestly believed that I could. At least, that's what I desperately hoped, for a while.  
> If you are willing, those very few who have read my posts, I'd like to offer 2.0 version of my very first CMBYN AU I originally posted at the middle (or sometime near the end, I'm not quite sure) of November 2018. (after almost a year of typing, scrapping the whole thing, retyping, rewriting, deleting the whole file, then back again writing... even then.)  
> This time, _And So..._ is an amalgam of three-in-one, (the separate posts I uploaded under this A/B/O verse), with lots of corrections (grammar, tense, and format) and rearrangements.  
> .  
> As a part of my tradition, if you still wish, click NEXT for more.


	2. Beginning of Something Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight years or so ago... Oliver's journey to Elio begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: **T**  
> .  
> ** **Warning** **  
> Description of groping and its emotional discomfort, internalized gender related resentment and anxiety, social class segregation.  
> Skip the + part for the cringy worthy paragragh and look for #.  
> .  
> 

**Chapter One. Beginning of Something Unexpected**

**8 years or so ago | beginning of Summer | Oliver POV**

It’s one of the worst things in my life: going through TSA. Three of them quickly flocked and huddled in front of me. What a show.

“I've never met any government ward Omega. You must be somthin’,” the one in the far left said, rubbing his extended index finger under his nostrils.

“Aren’t you too big for an omega?” the far right one joined with more than enough curiosity.

“What are you? rare bigger and taller exception?” the middle one who was hoisting his slacks by the loop over his overflowing lower belly, getting too close to my face.

Living in the era where male Omegas are rare, being gawked at like this has been a part of my life as long as I can remember.

“Oh, yeah. He is an Omega alright,” said one of the pudgy TSA, “the golden ring goes well with your eyes.”

“Where? I don’t see––,” a greasy face leaned in way too close to my face. I couldn’t help but blinking rapidly while trying not to appear rattled.

We became a rarity because of the whole propaganda about the biology since the late 80s. By design–the skeletal structure (narrower pelvic opening; meaning C-section) and under proportioned uterus (lower success rate of pregnancy, both natural and in vitro, and too frequent premature births)–male Omegas almost always require “extra” care. The mortality rate of younglings carried by male Omegas, too, is staggeringly high.

On top of that, regardless of the primary gender, most Omegas go through semi-annual heat. In early 2000s, the government mandated Omegan’s health PTO in addition to the regular ones; which are not in any way preferred by majority of employers (being private sectors, the worst). For those small percentages of us male Omegas, we are carded off to boarding school by the age of 11. The education provided by the government is less than sufficient. Hence, many of us end up in after-dark entertainment business. Well, unless you make it in Hollywood or Broadway. We became an outlet and a vehicle of other genders’ desire. Or those who were born into the mind-set of my parents, we are married off to a member of elitist Alphas by the age of 18. This usually means a boatload of money. An interactive collectible. Depending on the alpha (both male and female), some would go through sterilization to prevent unwanted medical cost in case of pregnancy. After the prime year, well…, a shrug.

In short, male Omegas are not worth the trouble, resources, time, and money in this Capitalist society other than serving to quench the rudimentary basic desires. Naturally, female Omegas has been the most sought after for the past few decades.

“Step over here.”

A froggy treble of Beta TSA snapped me back to reality I was inadvertently running away from.

Now the pat down. A sharp inhale.

+

My jaw tightened automatically and the discomforting groan gurgled from the base of my throat. I caught it just in time before it escaped my lips. A hard swallow. I placed my feet aligned in two yellow foot drawn on the floor. Trying to keep my face expression as neutral as possible, I lifted my arms. One of three TSA officers gathered, a beta male, flinged his hands with palms up, just above his belly level, gesturing me to raise my arms higher. They are always quite handsy and careless with their touches. I bet some of them get off of it.

The beta male, who smelled like a bit too ripe nacho cheese, lingered his hand in my groin slightly too long and ended with an intentional sweep of his palm up the length. A devious grin. I was dead sure he’d smell his hand later away from camera. A free whiff of Omegan pheromone.

#

“Oooo––, sublingual suppressants. You must be VERY valuable for the gov’ment,” one of the other TSA teased.

A female TSA, who appeared to be in charge of this shift, shot him a look with a loud, all too apparent and deliberate single cough. He ducked his head a little with a slight twitch before he recomposed himself.

“Any other medications or supplements you need to declare?” asked beta TSA with faux professional voice, a pitch lower.

“No, sir,” I said only what I needed to say as keeping my response neutral was getting harder by the moment.

 _Breathe, Oliver_. I reminded myself. Expecting to have some privacy as a lesser gender even in this day and age in the States is a pure fantasy. I’m two-thirds way to get my independence from the State government. After six weeks, my book will be well on its way of being published and, if things go as planned, I’ll finally free myself from the binds that held me down since I was 18. Then, I’ll...

“Next!”

“Good afternoon,” I said as politely as possible.

_Eyes down. Eyes down. Breathe._

“Doctor Omega, eh?” A thick Boston Accent. I couldn’t help myself from letting out short nervous chuckles under my breath with an awkward smile.

“Let me scan your wrist unit. It’ll be easier,” said the immigration officer reaching his hand forward a bit.

“I appreciate it,” I raised my arm over the opening of the booth so his hand-held scanner would easily reach my wrist.

I was really grateful for this small gesture after being treated like a livestock just a few minutes ago. This thin silicone wrist band, a smart nanochip (RFID and GPS included identification) unit, contains all and everything about me. Yes, it is a modern version of a dog tag with the fancy tech. But thanks to the technology and the Gender Freedom Act (GFA) legislation, unbonded Omegas can now live our lives with a bit more freedom. I couldn’t imagine how it would have been like before.

“Wow, you do take care of yourself. Running 5 miles daily?” asked the immigration officer. He is definitely Bostonian.

To an unexpected praise, I just scratched the back of my head.

“Sorry, it’s not my business,” he quickly offered at my silence after a short glance up at my face.

The officer then busied himself and started typing on the virtual keyboard. At a muffled whirring sound with a swipe of laser line, he slid in my passport in the device on his desk: a blue stamp printed on the page.

“If you ask me, we are still living backwards,” he tossed. He meant having a separate Omega passport. I wasn’t sure whether he was trying to be sympathetic, sincere, or just being political; like an uncle you see only in holidays who sit in the living room talking smack.

“It’s not only more work for little guys like me, it also gives me creeps. It’s not like that your gender population is large enough to compensate for the revenue collected for having this thing mandated,” said with a frustration laced gesture holding my Omega passport, “We are all human being, for goodness sake.”

Although I can carry on ping-pong-ing his point of view about the subject matter without breaking a sweat, I was too well aware of the time and the place. Even with my colleagues at Columbia, I steered clear of “how things should be” and stuck to my own subjects.

He then pushed his rolling desk chair, rather clandestinely, and reached to the back cabinet. He took out a folded leaflets and a business card then tucked them between the pages of my passport before handing it to me. As if it was something to be done underhand.

“Have a pleasant journey!” With a low buzz, the partition opened with a green fluorescent light. I dipped my head as an acknowledgement and appreciation. He smiled.

As soon as I passed the threshold, I first located where my gate was. After making a mental snapshot, I swiveled on my feet quietly to find my gender bathroom. I hope I don’t look in any way rattled.

 _Breathe, god damn it_. I frequently choose to use the all-access ones whenever I’m in public. The good thing about the big airport was that the facilities are usually well-maintained. I peered in a couple of empty stalls, walked into the one that wasn’t littered with empty take-out drink cups and closed the latch behind me.

A long sigh escaped me against my will. I looked down. No shake on my hands. Good.

I placed a single pill under my tongue and took out the gift Nic specially ordered, from one of compound pharmacy in Queens. A masking balm. These things were made for two specific purposes; i. neutralize Omega’s typical pheromone, and ii. general deodorant/perspiration control. We have been on and off for more than two years after I met her at one event of the activist groups.

As a female alpha grew up in the project, it was surprisingly easy to become good friends with her. She didn’t treat me like the others of her gender. Alphas, I mean. Though I protested, even open-minded alpha female herself couldn’t ward off her own gender’s typical protectiveness towards an unorthodox, rebellious omega such as me. I was surprised she didn’t put synthetic replica of her scent in this. A respect. I rolled the balm on my wrist, under my earlobes and underarms. Then, the sensation of unwanted touch came back like a surge of viscous murky wave. A cringe. Fucking bastard, I hope he’s happy. With gritted teeth, I unzipped my pants and pressed generous amount on each points. I probably have to reapply once more in the air. The check-in was easy. A swipe of my wrist band and beep. I stood far away from the waiting crowd till my boarding call.

Six weeks. I could not help myself feeling excited. A precious period of time that I’d be able to finish my manuscript and gain a good bullet point for my CV. Professor Samuel Perlman is renowned activist and scholar/academic of this era. Because of his work, I was able to convince the national board that my skills and passion are worthy for them to make me a state-ward Omega before I turned 18. Of course, compared to other Western European countries, the fields of ancient history, philosophy and its studies have not been a strong suit in U.S., which made me a niche. I knew this before going into it and fiercely fought to take advantage of it.

My parents went completely 'gaga' because they were hoping to bond me off with a big fat contract by an elite alpha from a respectable blood line. “Too many bad breeding,” my bubba used to say. Always harping over how wonderful mother I’d be to a strapping rich Alpha because I turned out good. Even our family practitioner vetted my baby-boomer-minded father’s theory. Nice skeletal structure, balanced hormone level, well-developed secondary sex organs. Yadi dadi dah. What did she say? “a nice specimen.” Riiiiight.

After what seemed like forever, my turn to board signaled, on the giant screen above the gate. I stowed my carry-on overhead and clicked on my buckles; that was when I noticed the trifold brochure was about a gender equality organization and related information pamphlet about international traveling as Omegas.

.


	3. Yours in Mine Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Oliver meets Elio––.  
> And Oliver finds out he is SOL in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: **T**  
> .  
> Parenthesis within quotation marks are Italian and its proper regional variation in this chapter.

**Chapter Two. Yours in Mine Eyes**

**Three days or so later, 8 years or so ago | Crema, Italy | Oliver POV**

The all-electric car ride was pleasantly comfortable. The sound of sun-baked gravel, rolling beneath, was inexplicably tantalizing. I might just put my bare-feet on them. Well, after I get settled first.

It was two, no, almost three days ago when I landed at Sicily-Palermo airport. Compared to the US customs, the Italian immigration officer was fast; almost too curt.

“err––, what is your business in Sicily?” thick Italian accent.

“Business,” I answered with a smile, “I’m meeting with my publisher.”

The immigration officer didn’t even bother to look at my paperwork. It seemed that as soon as he scanned my Omegan passport, the corresponding information must have popped up on his curved screen. After that, no more words. An electric buzz that left an entry stamp right below the laser printed US departure stamp I got less than 15 hours ago. No just-there-for-show-and-more-for-psychological-intimidation partition to be lifted. With my passport clutched in my hand, I simply walked through.

The baggage carousel spat out my check-in bag quite quickly so I was able to walk out without much wait. Thanks to clever Nic, I didn’t have to hail a cab. It was all arranged and I just needed to press ‘I’m here’ on my phone. Soon, I received a confirmation text saying the cab would be at the bay 27 in six minutes. I texted Nic, mindful of time difference, that I arrived 'okay.' Also, I sent an extra line saying, 'forgive me in advance for sparse comm.'

Yes, the publishing house did offer a pick-up but I couldn’t refuse Nic’s modulated yet still very alpha insistence. So the EA of my assigned editor, Bert,–short for Alberto–quipped that he would upgrade my ‘flight back to States’ to a business class, if I finish my manuscript before the end of Summer. Fat chance, I thought, as if the book about Heraclitus was destined to be a block buster. No way in hell that would happen.

*

“(I feel sorry for your buddy down there),” said Bert when he first saw me, tipping his head down in a quick glance, “New Yorkers,” he tut-tutted.

“What’s wrong with my khakis?” I countered, smiling.

“If Canadian? I understand. You Americans. Even in this climate change, aye––,” Bert shook his head leading me into the office, “I said pack for Italian Summer.” then he said something in Sicilian that I had no clue what he meant.

When I arrived at my hotel, Bert sent up some semi-formal linen garments–two dress pants, two moisture-wicking t-shirts, one single breasted waist-tapered blazer–and a pair of his old but barely worn espadrilles for me to wear. A typical European beta, I shook my head though I was grateful.

After two days of crazy meetings and social events,–I should have invested in some sun screen. I now have uneven, blotchy, red sunburns from standing in the balcony under the hot Summer Italian sun–I was allowed to depart to my final destination. The Perlmans.

Bert, who took to me instantly when we met in person, grabbed every chance to make fun of me.

“thick cotton shorts? Who even wears the pure cotton fabric anyway?”, “Why are they so long?” are some of the things Bert said about my just-above-knee-long cargo shorts. At the end of the very short stay, Bert arranged the Taxi ride for me, an Italian equivalent of Uber or Lyft. I wondered if this was how it would be like to have my own support staff when I’d get my full tenure.

“No, Uliva-r, you keep the shoes,” said Bert after I returned all the clothing he sent up, “(you managed to ruin it just in two days), no––, you keep,” he waved.

What made it more uncharacteristically comical was that as I was about to bid my good-bye, Bert squashed a straw hat on top of my head saying, “(now you are Italian), eh–, Signor Cargo shorts?”

*

When my ride pulled up, the curbside door popped open.

“ahh––, American,” the female driver smiled.

“Si.”

She asked whether I needed help with the luggage and I courteously waved, folding myself in after putting my duffle bag inside. When I finally buckled in, the driver said that she’d be picking someone up. I gladly agreed. It meant that I’d be splitting the fare. Sure, why not! The dude who joined the ride was called Ricardo. Between two Italians and an American, I was able to brush off my all American Italian. The driver, especially,–“You are almost Italian, eh?” commented on my new straw hat – was full of humor and showed well-rehearsed indulgence and understanding. It was a pleasant hour ride.

As the vehicle rolled in the drive way of the gorgeous picturesque villa making the gravels rumble under, I was greeted by the Perlmans even before I got out of the cab. There he was, walking towards the slowing cab, in person. Professor Samuel Perlman, in an off-white linen shirt and dark linen slack. He was accompanied by his mate.

“Professor Perlman,” I said as I got out of the vehicle, “thank you so much for having me.”

He gave me a firm but a brief hand shake, “Ahh––, welcome,” he then gestured with open arms and said, “oh my goodness, you’re bigger than your picture,” with all the warmth and fondness.

“Well, I couldn’t fit all of me in the photo,” I offered just before bending down into the cab to get the luggage and my bag.

The Perlmans broke out into a series of short fond laughs with a wide and genuine smile on their faces.

“Hello, Mrs. Perlman.”

She was exceptionally gorgeous, even in her casual attire of light denims.

“Annella,” she answered, gently shaking my hand. Her eyes smiled with lovely creases, “you must be exhausted.”

“Ahh–, what gave me away,” I lightheartedly responded.

“Elio–!” Pro bellowed, looking up as the Perlmans led me to the house.

*

On our way in, I was introduced to the house staff, Anchise, Mafalda, and Manfredi. I probably looked like some dumbfounded giant with his mouth open like a cod fish. But no one mentioned anything or made fun of me. I was instantly mesmerized by this quintessential European charm. The inside of the villa was even more beautiful. Rustic old-century feel interior was well-preserved and maintained.

Pro was so open and quite good at humor. I guess he has been having guests like me over the summer for so long, he knew how to make people feel comfortable. I sat down on the lounger while Pro was making pre-history related humor. All three of us broke out into a light-hearted laughter as a faint minty musk tickled my nose.

Then, when Annella came back into the study, she was accompanied by him. Unruly black curls, lanky limbs, and slight hunch on his shoulders. Wearing at least a size-too-big clothes: dark red short-sleeve polo over almost 80s retro blue-psychedelic shorts.

“Every single one of these will. Elio, Oliver. Oliver, Elio” Pro introduced us.

I got up, “how you doing?”

Spearmint, something peach-sweet, but very young musk wafted up my nose. His hazel eyes made a full contact with mine. My breath hitched.

“Nice to meet you, Elio,” he punctuated his name then he let go of my hand a beat too quick.

Suddenly, my palms began to sweat.

“You must be exhausted!” said Pro in a soliloquy-style tone. His sing-songy tenor echoed back and it sound so perfect within the walls brimming with books.

“A little bit,” I said putting hands down my pant pocket.

“Come, come, come,” said Pro placing his hand on my back to lead me close to where Elio was standing. He probably was just trying to offer gentlemanly gesture to guide me exiting the room. I found myself leaning into his palm as if it was a fatherly touch I never had. I caught myself swaying my upper body, though it was unnoticeable for other occupants in this room, as I took a step forward.

“Can I bring your stuff to your room?” offered Elio looking at my two luggage.

I stammered out something like, “ah––, oo––, sure,” quickly looking down. I, again, caught myself swaying, now side to side. duh fuck, Oliver? I chided myself.

He quickly grabbed my bags and tossed “I’ll show you to your room,” without a glance back, walking ahead.

As if the Perlmans sensed my awkwardness, Pro said, pleasantly, “follow him, our home is your home,” at the back of my head.

*

I ended up carrying my duffle bag. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just thought… well, I didn’t want to impose. As I tried grabbing the cloth-loops, my hand brushed against Elio’s and he retracted his hand as if I burnt him.

“Which way is to the beach?” I asked to ward off awkwardness on the way up to the stairs.

A couple of steps ahead, he put his hand on the back of his neck. His fingers. Neatly trimmed nails. He glanced around at my question with one of his eyebrows shot up. Before Elio had a chance to answer, I heard light footsteps coming down and was introduced to a girl named Marzia. Two quick pecks on my cheeks, she offered. She smelled of Elio, faint but definitely him. Marzia then exchanged something in rapid French with Elio before she padded down the stairs.

The room was filled with the scent of lavender and chamomile.

“We’ll need to share the bathroom,” he began. He opened the antique double-door closet explained that this was usually his room. On my left, there were two twin beds.

The bed.

As soon as I saw the bed, I felt the fatigue I shoulder-nudged to the side for past few days draping heavily on my entire body. I plopped, and sure enough, the sheets were scented ever so lightly with lingering Spearmint and sweet-musk.

*

**Next Morning, after breakfast | Crema, Italy | Oliver POV**

_Did the immigration officer know?_

.

I knew it wasn’t his job to hand me the extra travel information but I didn’t know I would actually need it.

When I finally managed to open my duffle bag, something was different. There was this printed announcement with–carelessly written, hard to make out–handwriting, indicating what was taken. All my syringes including auto-injectable suppressants were confiscated. Having no need to unpack during my brief stay in Sicily, delayed discovery of this monumental hick-up brought mixed emotions I couldn’t explain. A relief of the blissful unawareness for the sake of the formal situation and the shock of finally finding out. My innards didn’t forget to lurch and I tasted a bit of the now-acidic mushy liquid form of breakfast.

 _Bastards_. I couldn’t stop cursing under my breath.

They just arbitrarily took the “authorized” prescription medication and didn’t even alert me at the terminal. I frantically flipped open the flimsy thin sheets, ran my finger down to find Italy hot-line number and thumbed those digits on my phone screen. The lady over the phone, with thick Italian accent, very kindly informed me where I could get the replacement. I was given a number to the clinic in M. She added though–calling me the equivalent of “poor baby” in Italian–which I didn’t take it as an offense, if my prescription was bio-mimic type, trying to find anything similar to that formula in a short notice would be near impossible. Even without being prompted, she further added that I’d refrain from shipping the supply from States, noting the different medical import rules of Italy.

/ “it requires a physician to physician coordination,” / she said in a somewhat firmer tone as if she was air quoting.

Meaning I have to go through the right channel and the time that would require to get my injectable could easily exceed the scheduled duration of six weeks. I was sure for the life-and-death related medication, regardless of its forms, the regulation probably be different. Then she gave me numbers to adult toy stores in M, too, just in case I needed to placate myself for unwanted onset of heat. I thanked her and ended the call.

_Great––, fan-fucking-tastic!_

The thought of letting Nic know crossed my mind when her check-in text came.

*

When I asked Pro the following day about possibly going to M., he calmly asked, “when was the last time you were in heat?”

I froze. _How did he know?_

Noticing my surprise, he added, “Oliver, it’s okay,” a warm smile, “I’m an Omega myself.”

“A gorgeous and lovely one,” Mrs. Perlman added pressing her lips on the top of his head.

“Annella, (my forever, would you give us…),” said Pro looking up.

“(of course, my love).”

“No, Mrs. P. Please stay,” I gently countered. What came over me to be that bold I may probably not understand, but her soft yet wide smile confirmed that I made the right decision.

“How…, how did you know?” I carefully asked, trying desperately to keep my tone of voice neutral.

“Ah––, (sweetness). The de-scenting spray, Oliver.”

It was a balm but I didn’t correct him.

“It was subtle but it wasn’t that difficult,” Annella cooed, “made just for you, I presume.”

Pro updated what was going on to Mrs. P. Although it was mostly Italian, it sounded like a short hand. I picked up some German and French, too. Must be their own speak.

“Oh… no…, I’m sorry,” said Mrs. P, her eyebrows bunched up in heartfelt concern.

The Perlmans carefully asked me key questions; how many sub-lingual suppressants I have in my possession, the last time I had my cutaneous shot, what the interval between the shots was, etc. Annella said assuringly that going to M would not be a problem at all but switching to different ‘–oid’ medication would only mean the side-effect rather than the intended one.

“Listen, Oliver,” Pro leaned forward placing his elbow on his knees and gently clasping his hands together. Elio’s eyes.

“I know each Omegan physiology is different but, how about adjusting the sub-lingual dosage and we play it by ear?”

“Yes, Oliver Darling,” Annella quietly nodded with a kind earnest smile, a look of a caring parent.

“We are located away from the crowd and I don’t think Annella would react unfavorably to the surge of your hormone.”

Another shock.

“Ah––, yes. Oliver. I’m an Alpha,” Annella now sat on the arm of the sofa brushing Pro’s upper arm. Pro peeled her other hand that was perched on her lap and kissed the inner palm, just above the wrist with deep adoration and reverence.

“But…,” I stammered.

I felt like I was hit by a wooden bat on the back of my head. She explained her natural iris being closed to maroon rather than brown did the trick. Even I was not an exception to the stereotypical nomenclature. I just assumed that Pro being called “papa” meant that Mrs. P gave birth to their son.

Maybe it was because of my own determined stance on 'I will not have my child call me "mother" or in any variation of that title if I ever were to have my own pup' had to do with it.

In U.S., when female alpha younglings were born, they are mandated to go through surgical process. (*irl, similar to how circumcision is viewed and practiced widely; and sadly how majority of intersex infants’ genitals are handled.) It was only when the GFA was passed that the practiced of such violence was legally banned. Only early millennials were the first to benefit from this new era. I read about the statistical comparison of gender percentage but it was my first time of meeting fully intact mature female Alpha. The fact in itself was very intimidating. I froze.

“Not to worry, Oliver, I’m forever bonded to Samuel.”

“(my dearest),” Pro beamed at his wife.

Annella leaned down and they shared a languid long lip kiss. Her gestures were definitely enforcing their bond.

We talked more. The Perlmans added that majority of town folks were permanently bonded or young betas. Not strangely enough, I was reassured and became quite comfortable. In the end, I was glad this discussion happened.

*

“I carried him. I insisted on bearing our child,” said Samuel as Mafalda brought out some refreshments.

“Aye–– Tesoro, Samuel. my very precious unusual Omega," she cooed, "those nine months, he was most stunning and glorious,” Annella brushed her hand on the side of Pro torso and added, “Has the most beautiful stretch marks to prove it.”

Pro just giggled quietly with an open smile like a teenager, tucking his chin to his chest gently at her touch.

“Oh, Oliver. Don’t let her sweetness fool you.” added Samuel.

Mrs. P then started on how Pro got the “Papa” designation. In the middle of the story, all three of us turned our heads simultaneously as Mafalda called out Annella’s name; someone called for Mrs. P for her art work and something about easels.

When Annella stepped out, I could tell Pro was mulling some thoughts in his head. His eyes were neutral but the air in the room began to shift.

“You see… because of how we raised Elio,” he broke the gathering staleness, perching his head on the back of his hand leaning lightly back to the back of the sofa, “he may act more like non-gender specific, Beta at best when he gets his teenage angst. But he is an Alpha.”

A pause.

An antiquated yet firmly practiced UN international law states that no bonding should occur before the legal age of 18. Although majority of male Alphas get away with lesser sentence, other genders suffer severe consequences. Except for Romeo-Juliet clause, no one should dare to break this international code. Bio-chemically, some early maturing male alphas can go into a rut before the legal age. They usually get a neutral shot to medically subdue it while still letting the board defined proper growth/development. This law was implemented after the WW II and before the Vietnam. The only purpose was to decrease the bad breeding; younglings born from yet-fully-mature parents. Because Global Health Service (GHS; of which NHS must answer to)’s studies showed pups from young parents have a higher chance of non-civilized development including psychological disorder. Hence, many developed countries codified the legal age to rut and breed so they would not have those kinds in their citizen pool. Another type of carefully curated discrimination.

“Thankfully, he is able to pour his gender typical characteristics into transcribing and sitting in front of the keys for hours on end but…,” Pro trailed.

Unspoken words were clearly more powerful, although I couldn’t tell whether it was a statement of facts or a word of caution. He saw right through me and I wasn’t even here for more than 48 hours.

A slight nod, “I understand,” my lips pressed together and formed a thin line.

With an affectionate smile, Pro exhaled through his nose. Non-verbal confirmation and acknowledgement. With a tap, more like a quick slap, on his own thigh, he got up.

“Enjoy, relax, and have fun. Let the inspiration flow through you,” said Pro offering warm encouragement and gentle pat on my shoulder.

We exchanged an ear-to-ear grin as I followed him out of the study.

.

\-----------------------------------------------

[the camera pulls away & scene changes to upstairs]  
On Oliver’s pushed-together bed, a light comes on his phone. A lock screen indicating a text message from Nic.  
'dose adjustment suggestion'

\-----------------------------------------------

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As _Find Me_ has revealed some of the details, I took the liberty of updating Oliver's wife's name as well.


	4. Just Three Days After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Crema, Oliver is finally getting a chance to just be himself, for the first time in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: **T**  
> .  
> 

**Chapter Three. Just Three Days After**

**First ten days, 8 years or so ago | Crema, Italy | Oliver POV**

I learned early on, because of the circumstances and the situation I was thrown into, how to read people’s contradicting emotions and subtle nuances: a survival instinct. It was a painstakingly heartwrenching choice to “appear” that I did not care, that I paid no mind to unnecessary derogatory comments, to being put down or considered less of a human being because of my secondary gender.

What started as keeping a straight face has now become the Ollie mode — a phrase pun of “à la mode”; Nic’s version of calling it instead of poker face.

But for some reason, from the very first day I arrived here, everything started to be okay. It started out with, me having no choice but to open, my shirt buttons; two to be exact. Italian Summer was definitely hotter than what I was used to. Humidity here was a different animal. With this rate, putting masking balm would only end up as a futile attempt. Coming from a small town in New England and being an odd Jew, I kept my Star of David somewhat hidden under my ‘proper attire,’ being a government ward and all. There was no negative emotion attached to my habit until a couple of years ago. Just a few weeks before my departure, there was another mass shooting in a synagogue within the city limits. This unfortunate reemergence of White Nationalism made being a Jew in States, yet again, something I needed to keep under wraps—for the sake of my life.

But here, I was okay with being Jew. I was okay with myself. I was okay with my body, with my antic backhand, with my choice of books, music, films, friends. First I shrugged this change in me for being in Europe, as people say; when people travel the Old World, they behave differently. Not to mention the fact that something about the perpetual temporariness would bring out or unveil the part that people normally wouldn’t at their home environment. I couldn’t say I was an exception of those common conceptions. Then I quickly revamped my initial statement to “for being around the Perlmans and the villa.” The runs were different. Sitting under the sun was different. I found myself just enjoying my surroundings and taking them in. Naturally, I was getting more and more detached from the devices I obsessively made sure to bring over. A laptop, a tablet, an external hard drive. There were so many other things that occupied my waking hours. Even Nic mentioned that I sound different, when I spoke to her briefly the other day. To that I tossed, “it’s just same ole me,” and shrugged it off.

*

A translator Bert arranged, Signora Milani, preferred using actual type writer. It gave me a reason to write out in parchments Pro graciously and generously offered.

On the first day of my official duty as a summer guest, sorting out his physical mails, email correspondences and downloading e-files to his tablet by categories, I was holding a sheet of offwhite paper. The texture was quite different from what I was used to.

“They are tree-free,” Pro said.

I must’ve had a question mark on my face. He lightly chuckled with his trademark wide smile.

“sugar cane, banana leaves, palm leaves. Here, you are welcome to use them. Every writer needs to get their hands dirty,” and offered one of his Mont Blanc pens.

I had a similar one just like it; one that my gammy gave it to me for my high school graduation before she passed away. But the one I brought was actually given by the state official as a part of outward charade, a photo op, a couple of years ago. So I was okay with losing it, too. Getting critiqued by Pro was okay; in fact, I loved his feedback. Even it meant that going back to the drawing board. Having tête-à-tête with different guests at “the dinner drudgery” was quite interesting. Well, up to a certain point. I did need to excuse myself here and there.

*

I think it was when Elio was showing me around the town, a few days back. Upon his suggestion, we took the bike. Having never been to a country side such as this, my heart was leaping out of my chest the whole ride. His minty scent carried by the wind, pushing all my five senses into complete overload. I was happily and blissfully drowning in it.

The _bartabacchera_ was totally dark and empty. The owner was mopping the floor with the strong ammonia solution. Without a word, we looked at each other and bolted out of the bar. When I asked him whether I could open a bank account here, he just shrugged and said, “wouldn’t it be better to have your U.S. account to accept international deposit?”

“I didn’t think of that.”

“The guy before you, last year, told me about it. I don’t know how it is done, though,” said Elio as if he was spitting out some long idling thoughts.

Elio had this funny but endearing way of speech; cramming all the things he wanted to say as if he was always running out of time, never meeting my eyes but drawing paths with his gaze.

“But if you are going for some discretion, I’d forego the bank anyway,” Elio shrugged.

He offered a large bottle of mineral water after taking a long swill. I waved my hand. Elio brought it back to his lips, took another swig, then he did it. Something nonchalant and uneventful for him that took my breath away. He poured some water on his other hand and ran his fingers through unruly dark curls.

_Fuck_

At that, my first reaction was to offer yet another veiled indifference, Later,—the false bravado I carefully constructed over the years and to hide behind my wide, all-teeth, golden boy smile—and bolt away from him.

“What did one do around here?” I asked instead, busying my eyes away from Elio.

“Nothing,” said Elio flinching a little, “wait for summer to end,” as if to convey the meaning of the word ‘insufficient.’ Maybe the water was too cold? Or it wasn’t fizzy enough? I thought.

“What did one do in the winter, then?” I was frantically trying to keep the conversation going.

The hazel eyes peaked up from behind the sunglasses with a bit of ‘you already know the answer to that’ look. Ah––, as the voice in my head echoed, I inclined my head a bit.

“Don’t tell me: wait for summer to come, right?” I countered with a grin.

What surprised me was that even though I desperately tried not to get involved with the son of the host, my short Italian summer jaunt, I found myself being able to read Elio’s mind just from that look.

It was a good feeling.

“Actually, in the winter the place gets very gray and dark. We come for Christmas. Otherwise it’s a ghost town.”

I teased him more which he made this adorable look, every time. I understood his wordless expression. We laughed. I asked more of what he did. He said he played tennis. Swam. Went out at night. Jogged. Transcribed music. Read.

_Can he be any more real?_

The words Elio was tossing nonchalantly towards my direction landed straight in my chest. The same code. The same interest. A seventeen-year-old sharing the same shade of color as mine. That was it. It took me less than three days to fall for him; head over heels, completely crazy in love. And in front of him, I became this blundering idiot. The desire I couldn’t hide; wanting to get to know him, wanting to hear his voice, wanting to have him meet my eyes.

So I did what I do best when Elio offered he’d show me his jogging route: the promenade.

“Later, maybe.”

The feign indifference.

.

\---------------------------------------------------------

[Chapter 3 deleted scene]

Playing volleyball under the Italian Sun, sweat pouring out of every pore I have, I could no longer hold onto the inhibitions I well-practiced my entire life. For the first time in a very long while, I found myself enjoying this whole no-care-in-the-world attitude. I never thought I had it in me. Through clandestine peripheral stolen glances, Elio came into view; encircling outside of the courtyard without his shirt on. Even Chiara noticed. _uhf, fuck it_ , the voice in my head spat.

I ran to him in a light sprint, placed my hand where I wanted to bury my nose on, and grabbed a water bottle from Elio’s hand. 'Are you out of your mind??' I knew exactly what I was doing, but I couldn’t help myself just to act on this impulse.

While the cold, lime-squeezed water was going down my throat, I breathed in as much of Elio’s scent as I could. I felt Elio tense up under my palm.

“Did I hit a nerve?” I offered as I wiped the stray streak of water off, with the back of my hand.

“here,” while I showed my faux concern, just to rub my pads on his scenting-points to make it more intense. 'you are out of your god-damn mind!' The voice inside my head chastised.

As I gently kneaded his muscles, his freshly squeezed gland let out thicker spearmint in the air. Immediately, my mouth watered. All I wanted was to lick them off of him. As the want was getting out of my hands, Elio twitched again. _This is my cue_. I turned my head towards where Marzia-sitting-on-the-grass,

“Marzia, come feel this.”

\---------------------------------------------------------

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ clarification ]  
> à la mode; Nic was being sarcastic and making fun of Oliver. Her meaning would be close to ‘Chilled sweet façade.’ Oliver being Oliver always talking about linguistics and Etymology and all...  
> .  
> As always, \Thank you/ for reading, your time and interest.  
> Do please stay safe and healthy: mind, body, and soul.  
> 


	5. En Passant: now, your move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things Oliver didn’t even think to realize what had happen physiologically during that six-week stay. Even from a brief re-encounter with Elio, eight-long years later, Oliver’s body knows. Yet, Oliver’s rational brain refuses to see or understand. And now a full grown alpha, Elio makes a first move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: **T**  
> .  
> En passant  
> n. a move in chess. It is a special pawn capture that can only occur immediately after a pawn makes a double-step move from its starting square, and it could have been captured by an enemy pawn had it advance only one square.   
> .  
> [ heads-up ] POV change: denoted within the chapter sub-heading  
> .  
> Paragraph between ._._._. are Oliver’s reverie.

**Chapter Four. En Passant: now, your move.**

**Evening, Present Day | New York | Oliver’s Place | 3rd Person POV**

About a week later, Oliver receives an e-vite to a concert. The link has detailed information about how rare this concert is; with full 120-piece orchestra and simultaneous live streaming services with a long list of online music platforms and satellite radio stations, with the healthy helpings of big name sponsors. To make the scale even more grand, Elio’s night will be accompanied by showcase of a new full concert grand from one of the major piano companies. From the looks of it, Elio will be playing during the week of Johannes Brahms’ theme concerts.

_Friday, Wow._

Brahms’ Night Chapter Three.

Caroline Gvanstsanese introducing Elio Perlman to U.S. stage.

And Oliver is able to click on Elio’s bio. A bright light gleaming on his face, sitting on the sofa, the blond is able to see the long list of bullet points shows Elio’s accomplishments and awards in Europe. Oliver thinks Elio has achieved quite a lot for his age. Oliver huffs quietly to himself. Of course, as he undoubtedly should.

If this Caroline pianist is as renowned as she was, Oliver wonders, how was Elio managed to get him a last minute Friday evening ticket since the concert is only three weeks away? Oliver ponders the thought intensely, alongside another thought. Whether he can go. It is not a matter of capability. It’s the implication that his action of attending Elio’s concert. Ufgh, Oliver, he chides himself. When did you become so concerned about the consequences that you do not have any control over?

I’d probably need to have a sitter over for Mini, Oliver makes a list of things to do in his head without realizing that the well-geared problem-solving-slash-readiness brain circuit of his is leading him to the next step. Still thumbing up the page in his smart phone screen. Then, just as quickly, Oliver goes, aw, man, what am I thinking?

_Plink._

The e-vite must’ve had a read-receipt, Oliver posits to himself, his eye widen a little, staring at the screen. Is he surprised at the fact that Elio actually did save his contact information in Oliver’s phone? Or is Oliver having trouble processing the very surreal nature of seeing Elio’s text in his screen?

Oliver is glad that Mini is sound asleep. What does one say to such question? ‘Congratulations, I’m happy for you?,’ or ‘Break your leg?’ Uhg, get a grip, you idiot. Oliver scolds himself.

The funny thing is that Oliver almost can picture Elio on the other end of this digital communication. Somewhere in New York. Nonchalantly sending a message after receiving read-receipt. His dark chocolate curls falling over on his forehead a little, huffing out a subdued laugh with a quirk on his lips.

What now? Oliver asks himself, staring at his phone screen, rubbing at the evening stubble on his jaw with his palm.

Then, his fingers begins to move. Sure enough, all Oliver fares is a series of quick thumb, thumb, thumb, followed by thumbing the backspace button on the screen. Then, he proceeds to typing and deleting several times, not knowing what or how to say it.

_Plink._

__

Damn, the typing bubble. The bridge of Oliver nose crinkles a little. Without noticing, Oliver gets up off the couch and begins to pace in his own living room. So many thoughts are jumbling up inside his head. Well, Oliver has legitimate enough justification to decline, politely. Teaching a pilot history course for the nursing program at the local community college during summer. It’s one of Columbia’s affiliate schools. After years of persuasion, debate, and basically, lobbying to teach the most up-to-date and objective omega history in a 101 level will indeed be a great forward step. Not just academically but socio-econo-political change in our psyche. As soon as he reaches the end of his own thought, Oliver clicks his tongue and runs his open hand through his hair over the top of his head. Na–, Elio probably won’t be interested in that, Oliver mulls to himself.

Having been invited to similar settings as a government ward, Oliver happens to own a suit that may not embarrass Elio. Am I worried about embarrassing Elio? His pacing comes to a stop. Are you? his upper back stiffening a bit, Oliver asks himself. But you’re not even sure whether you will go or not yet. And now you are worried about embarrassing Elio with the suit you own?

Whether the debate Oliver is engaged with himself in his head is grounds for rethinking Oliver’s state of emotional and mental health, one thing is for certain that Oliver isn’t sure he has the guts to broach the long silence since he lef––

_Plink._

Shit! Oliver curses under his breath realizing his phone screen is black. He is aware that he has been staring at it. But he was too deep in his own thoughts long enough for the device to turn off its screen light. Which means it has been more than five minutes.

Oliver quickly unlocks, drags down the top notification, and the text app opens. Oddly, Oliver feels the haptic feedback from his almost two-year-old device registers weird against his finger pads.

Wait! Did he just…? Oh, you sneaky son of a…

After unintentionally disclosing he isn’t seeing anyone in particular, another set of too-many-thoughts chatters inside Oliver’s head. Of course, I’m a parent first. My child should be the first and foremost priority in my life, for any circumstances or consideration. Maybe I’m just keeping my personal details to myself. Even from you, Elio. Urrggghhhh––, Was I this petty?

Clever as always.

What the fuck are you doing? Oliver chides himself.

Without giving much thought, Oliver's fingertips lead him. And even before his rational brain has a chance to catch up, Oliver's thumb already pressed SEND button. Boowoop–

*

**The Following Day | Doctor’s office, New York | Oliver POV**

“How long has it been?”

The last OB/GYN was just over two years ago. Other than what was required by Columbia, I didn’t see the need to visit any specialist. And tossing ‘I’m sorry I really don’t have time’ to each time my family practitioner reminded me, well, I WAS really swamped with work, was easier than I thought.

Also, I haven’t necessarily been sexually active so... . Frankly, and more importantly, the thought of another Smear test makes me wince more than anything. So I have been avoiding.

“Not since Nicole died.”

She keeps her expression neutral and types-taps-and-clicks on her tablet. Healthcare professionals have been mandated to go through de-sensitization training. The degree of how rigorous the training is usually depended on how politically inclusive the institution was. Mostly, doctors and nurses can use the scent blocker under their nose to counter the possible unwanted distraction. ER and trauma units… well, let’s just say the reality is not always as what the textbook ideology preaches. So for those of us Omegas quickly learned to pick the providers with reputable and vetted reviews.

“Are you on any suppressants?”

Even in her day-in-and-day-out professionally chiseled out unbiased tone, she means other resources than the official doctor prescription.

“No.”

Mini and I have been busy trying to live a life without Nic. I took a sabbatical and decided to postpone Mini’s primary school entry.

“Any headache or nausea?”

“No, just the discomfort,” my hand automatically wraps itself around my lower belly.

“Come on up, let me examine you,” she says pulling out the extensions. Urrgghh, they still look like a torture device.

._._._.  
Three months after Mini’s birth, the debt was paid and I became an independent Omega. I even paid Nic back, the portion Nic had to pay the State in order for her to become my guardian, which she called it a loan. A loan without interest or the obligation to pay-up, she said. When I finally persuaded her to accept the amount, she utilized it as a full donation for her cause; two abused underage Omega young-adults were able to get a proper medical care. After Mini was happily weaned, Nic asked, out of nowhere, whether I’d like to be legally unattached. Saying something in lines that I was a completely independent Omega and that I could now start teaching full time since Columbia offered a trustworthy in-house child care.  
._._._.

“A little uncomfortable, Oliver,” the doctor announced quietly.

I never liked the feeling of speculum. So intrusive. And though I know she can’t see my face, I find myself trying to hold back a flinch. It is more like a mental knee-jerk reaction than of actual pain, since both the medical lube and the device are warm.

“You said the discomfort started very recently?” she asks. And I can glance at the top of her head.

._._._.  
I pried and pried for a span of few days to have Nic talk to me why she even brought up the subject.

Have you found someone you want to actually bond with?

/ No. /

Have Mini and I become a burden to you?

/ No. /

Then, why?

/ because of the work that I do. /

That was the first time I saw her cry.

Although she was aware that having a co-parent would only benefit Mini, to grow up as a well-rounded Alpha, she gave a serious thought to detach herself from us. When, after all, she was the one made all this possible. Maybe Nic always knew, in some unknown way, that her time was coming due. It took me a while to understand how dreadfully terrified she was of the fact she’d be leaving us behind. The realization of how deep her fears ran came to me, when I met her proxy from the organization she was working for. Nic’s living will was meticulously drafted and bonded to assure, not just my continued independent Omega status but also the comfortable life for both Mini and I for few years. Her boss, Glen, told me that he had to take measures since Nic refused to accept any bonus or pay-raise, for all the work she did for the organization. Hence, Glen resorting it to a sizable company life insurance policy under her name.  
._._._.

“Dealing with the loss of a family member, a close ally, a friend, a support in such traumatic way does something to body,” after a few tiny clicks, the doctor says in her futile attempt to distract my attention, “Is there any change in your routine?”

Then, it hits me.

Elio.

“Oliver?” her expertly plucked-and-trimmed eyebrows arch up—resemble the Chinese character number 8—looking up at me, emerging to the line of my sight, between my legs.

“I’m sorry,” I shake off the conversation with Nic and gather myself, “Yes.”

“Alpha, huh?” the doctor states, again in tamed neutral tone, while taking her disposable nitrile gloves off.

I feels heat rushing up on my neck and cheeks. Oh, fuck, don’t blush, Oliver. You are over thirty.

“Ultrasound image along with your blood chemistry panel will let me know more. But, as of now, I don’t suspect any clinical abnormality. I recommend a birth control if you are–,”

“No suppressants, please,” I know I should let her finish her sentence but Nic made me promise that I would never ever resort to suppressants.

/ “no matter whom you meet, the contraception should not be your responsibility. Two to tango, people say, right?" / Nic’s voice echoes, with her bright smile. A conversation we had long long time ago, after I came back from Italy that summer. Nic folding the laundry, me six months.

A smile-huff escapes me. And I see the doctor’s face and her smile of approval on my request, juxtaposed over Nic’s spectral image I recalled in the exam room as she answers, “of course.”

**Same day | Cafecito, New York | 3rd POV**

Sitting in Cafecito, Oliver cannot stop himself from brooding over the text exchange from last night. The blond did reply; in a clipped, something in lines with ‘I will let you know.’

Ehkk, Oliver removes his lips from the edge of the cup, cold. A blatantly outward evidence of ‘Oliver spent too long’ on unnecessary overthinking; even the most delectable cup turned sour.

/ ‘the seat is yours.’ /

was Elio’s reply to Oliver’s round-about, ‘I might not be able to make it’ answer.

Oliver doesn’t have much to do. After the doctor’s visit, he could have easily went home and wait there before he goes to pick up Mini. But it somehow didn’t feel right to Oliver. So, he came here about an hour ago, ear buds shoved securely in, pretending to work, his favorite Italian espresso already cold.

*

“what, no scones?”

Oliver looks up a tad too quick with a startle. It looks like he just gave himself a cringe on the back of his neck.

“I knew you weren’t listening any,” says Elio sitting opposite of Oliver, sipping from his 22oz tumbler.

Oliver huffs quietly under his breath, his face coloring with how glad he is seeing Elio like this, and says “Hi, Elio.”

A single jolly scoff, “Hi, Elio,” counters the dark curls with a smile, making himself comfortable in the seat opposite Oliver.

Oliver does look surprised. But an expression of a good surprise. The blond takes out his earphones, wrapping it around his hand as he had done countless times, then gently slids the bundle to the side on the table. Elio observes Oliver’s movement while basking in Oliver’s attempt to appear as neutral as possible.

“So, where’s Mini?” asks Elio.

“She’s with her grandparents.”

Elio’s eyebrows rise towards his hairline.

“Nicole’s,” answers the Blond.

“ah––,” Elio tips in head back a little, showing he understood what Oliver meant. Because Elio knows that Oliver and his parents haven’t been in a speaking terms. A little slice of personal story Oliver shared, all those years ago.

After a short, shared chortle-like-laughs, an awkward silence falls over them; Oliver thrumming his fingers on top of his thigh, under the table. Elio sipping a fresh warm brew from his travel mug, keeping his gaze over the rim, studying Oliver.

“Oh, relaax,” says the hazel eyes, “I had some errands to run near here,” leaning back on his seat, “this place does have good coffee.” Meaning, Elio wasn’t following him around purposefully. Well–, maybe not overtly.

“Can’t argue with that,” retorts Oliver, choosing not to rebuttal or cast a bit of doubt on the subject of how an earth another pure-chance meeting such as this is taking place without premeditation on Elio’s part.

“Exactly,” agrees Elio, as if to put a punctuation on Oliver’s decision not to press on the seeming coincidence.

Both smile warmly. Just like that, they are back being able to read each other as if no time has passed. And the awkward silence soon turns into shared comfort. No need for words. Something more than comradery between two men, yet a visible tension that always happens between prospective romantic partners. A taut palpable bi-direction tug and pull. _Delicious_ enough that they can actually taste it.

“Any plans for this summer?” Elio continues.

Oliver tilts his head a bit in a suspicion. Okay, I’ll whet my beak, Oliver thinks to himself before he says, “I’ll be teaching a pilot program.”

Elio nods with a knowing smile, “about~?”

“Bronze age Omegan history.”

“Wow.”

So you know, Oliver’s gaze on Elio that has been locked says without words.

But this time, Oliver swiftly decides to taste the water. So he states, “something tells me you already knew that.”

A huff, and a wide grin tilting his chin to the side, “guilty!” admits Elio raising both his hands up in the air, “as I am to start teaching at NYU soon, I get these things called newsletters?” he chuckles.

Then his hazel eyes formed a delightful half-moon smile and continued, “even if I tried not to, it now became a part of my business to know.”

_Gosh… I didn’t know how much I missed his laughs._

And to show Elio actually read about it, the alpha begins to give Oliver the summary. That this pilot program is in close association with the NYU med-school project Oliver started last semester. Something Oliver worked very hard for; in honor of his late spouse, Nicole, Elio adds, “if I’m guessing correctly.” And the hazel eyes proudly continues what Pro used to say. That scholars should learn how to speak to layperson, so long as one Dante-and-Homer them first. A little smile comes over on Oliver’s face. Because what Elio summarized are true. Nic used to say spreading facts and truth to more people by proper accessible education is the key for creating the harmonious and inclusive society. Because the mention of Pro from his own son, Elio, brings back the very memory of how passionate and animated Pro was when he first spoke of this.

It was not just about him being warm and relaxed. It was never about the lightness of the tasks Oliver was given for that summer. Instead of being one of those towering philosophical-n-academical figures in this highly corporatized, commodified, and bureaucratized academic realm since the mid-80s, Prof. taught without actually calling it ‘teaching.’ He took time; he listened; he lingered; he cared. Hand-to-hand. Soul-to-soul. He literally and incessantly shared his time and energy with every soul who walked in or joined his dining table—no matter the level of education, no matter the background: all walks of life. There was no topic under the Sun Pro wouldn’t discuss and wrestle with. Pre-Socratic to Neo-Naziism and Neo-liberalism. Politics to Spirituality. Even with the subject matter he had little knowledge of, he was never shy about admitting the big-fat-yet-short phrase, ‘I don’t know,’ most esteemed academics fear to utter. An example of high quality educator. Critical thinking, agreeing to disagree, without separating the essence of emotions and feelings that are practically imbued in his only Professor-Samuel-Perlman way. Never forgetting the fundamentals of it all. What it means to be human being? A continuously consciously and proactively examined life.

Of course, Oliver did debate the very possibility of him romanticizing that slice of life. Short six weeks of temporary and fleeting paradise, home away from home. Yet, it wasn’t just Oliver. Testimonial, right? Not just his predecessor: Meynard who recommended the blond. But many before them. And Oliver has seen the endless number of post cards and gifts, many whom always wish to revisit the villa. Even years later. Even where there is no contractual and outward social obligation to be fulfilled.

And yes, Oliver too felt that teaching the future learned professionals of fact-based, non-partisan, archeological-evidence based knowledge backed by quantifiable data would jump-start the better treatment of secondary genders. Keeping the dying art of tradition, per se.

Elio’s wrist unit ‘ting’-s and his dazzling curls sway as his eyes turn to look outside. Even from that light motion, the air carries Elio’s scent to Oliver. Oliver cannot help but to swoon with a subdued sigh. I forgot how much I missed his scent. Oliver thinks to himself, taking in as much of Elio’s scent that wafted up his nose.

“My ride’s here,” Elio means the Uber, as he gets up, holding his tall tumbler.

He is leaving.

Again.

Two opposite emotions swirl chaotically inside his chest. But the omega resigns himself to continue on keeping his composure. Oliver is about to bid goodbye, Elio pauses, standing next to Oliver without facing or looking the blond.

“I’d really love it if you could come,” says Elio. Not quite in a tone of request. Yet not quite a tone of statement, either. Then the alpha turns his head, his chin just above his shoulder and meets Oliver’s blue eyes. With a firm gaze.

A full eye-contact. Not the one two have been dancing around till just now. Something predatory.

Looking up, Oliver sits frozen without a blink.

“Or I’d rather see an empty seat,’ adds Elio with an airy indifference under-toned with a bite, before saying, with a smile,

“Esco, Ulliva!”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Esco: from book-verse: Oliver’s Italian equivalent of _Later_.  
> .  
> [ Update Schedule ]  
> As this AU fic has been tossed and tumbled over so many times, unless otherwise indicated, I’m planning on updating a chapter a day (as of April 8, 2020 UTC).  
> .  
> Although many do not believe when I say this but… I have always been open to feedbacks, inputs, and suggestions. Change and progression are a part of our existence, the wise people say. So, do please feel free to let me know (meaning feel free to toss any of three I just mentioned, about this AU, in the comment) what you want to read in this version of _And So…_. i.e. (or such as) whether you’d like to read Oliver’s version of ElliOllie’s summer together more or not, etc. (*kuh hum* of which definitely be a challenge for me at this point, not that I'm actively asking for challenges; but the point I am fumbling so miserably is... that my wish is to make this version as interactive as I am able.)  
> .  
> Wish you a great and joy-filled day.


	6. È Un Timido

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concert night and Oliver’s unease comes out as a tart social commentary that has nothing to do with the whole experience of seeing Elio on stage. And Oliver jumps into conclusion about Elio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: **T**  
> .  
> [Blatant Homage] I did inform the said author of this chapter, _after_ I finished posting this, back in early 2019. And… if you consume fics in this fandom as I do, you’d know whom. *kuh hmm*

**Chapter Five. È Un Timido: If only Oliver would just ask… .**

**Friday Evening | New York | David Geffen Hall, Lincoln Center | 3rd person POV**

Three weeks seemed like a blur to Oliver. No, correction. It was more in terms with that odd mixture of feelings that happens every now and again. That when you are living each day, time seems to flow so slow you can actually touch it with your hand. Yet, once you take a moment to look back, maybe before bed or waiting in the line at the local pharmacy, something hits you and you realize that more number of days have gone than you thought you had a grasp in your head. A peculiar sensation of having keen sense of being present in the moment of time as you live your day, yet realizing that the very fabric of time itself just passed you by. Yeah… exactly that.

But Oliver stubbornly regarded his butterflies-in-the stomach and tried his best justifying to himself that it didn’t bother him too much. A form of self-manipulation, that was. A defeated sigh escapes his nose. As an avid runner, Oliver fits masterfully in his tailored suit. Of course, he stood in front of his closet, two separate sets hanging. He wasn’t sure of which one he should choose; so he ended up dry cleaning both, a few days back.

_Or I’d rather see an empty seat._

Lightly curled-in fist under his chin, his other arm hugging his torso in the front, supporting his bent elbow, Oliver mulled Elio’s words. Elio-he-knew-then vs. Elio-he-is-now are different. And… something about the alpha’s measured assertiveness made something churn inside Oliver. Tingly.

*

The hall is huge. And the place is jam packed with patrons and classics enthusiasts of all ages. Even the expensive box seats are full. Two pianos are interlocked together in the middle of the stage. The one on the right of the stage appears slightly bigger than the one on the left. Without their top, several microphone stands are positioned above the strings. While the audience sits down, the overhead announcement comes on. Although the tone is soothing and just enough buttery to set the mood, the message is quite passive aggressive. In a gist, thanks to the recent renovation, the cell signal will be blocked for the duration of concert and the patrons should refrain from the subservient encore chants. The actual vocabulary is expertly ‘civil.’ Oliver chuffs under his breath with a hint of tartness. Something the usual Oliver would never minded. But everything is hyper-heightened for him. The omega is taking in everything.

Orchestral members start walking in and on the stage then begin their tuning. As the light in the hall dims, leaving only stage-lights, Oliver takes in a breath.

Second chair stands up as the first chair walks up to the stage. When the female conductor walks in from the opposite side, the whole orchestra stands up and claps softly. The maestro bows. The first chair kisses her hand before sitting down. Then, the conductor opens her arm, Caroline walks up with her natural sway of hips and places her hand on the maestro’s palm. Caroline Gvanstsanese has a chocolate brown hair and bright green eyes, in an impeccable figure-hugging dress showing her voluptuous lines. In person, she looks more like a pro-Latin dancer than a concert pianist. She has a blazing red lipstick but no fake eyelashes or heavy eye makeup. A small single stud earrings glint brightly under the stage light.

She sits down on the chair on the right side grand.

The maestro then extends her other arm, Elio walks up from the other side. He is in hunter green suede tux. To Oliver’s surprise, Elio is wearing light blue shirt with a matching bow tie rather than formal shirt.

_Billowy._

Olive gasps. And the young patron sitting next to Oliver grunts a bit.

.

After just over two hours and a half, Caroline and Elio are standing in the center stage, as the crowd erupts into a loud wave of claps. Not surprisingly enough, a chant for encore breaks out. _See? It doesn’t matter how much the event managers “try” to make the U.S. classics culture to resemble that of European one. Just waste of an overhead announcement._ Oliver thinks to himself.

Two pianists take several bows but the crowd doesn’t seem to stop their applause. The female pianist leans over to Elio’s left ear and they exchange some words. Then, Caroline goes over to the conductor. The first chair, too, gets up and joins the two. It looks as though there is no encore planned.

Elio soon joins them around the conductor’s podium, the four exchanges some more words; then nodding, some gestures. Then wide smiles bloom on all four of them. It appears they have reached to an agreement. The audiences who are still on their feet begin to take their seats.

Elio runs his hand over and through his head. Oliver’s lips part and takes a tiny soundless gasp. The alpha on the stage is not looking directly at him. But that small of a gesture heats up Oliver’s cheeks. The omega is aware that no one is looking at him yet he cannot help but being self-conscious. So he gathers himself in his seats, as his eyes darts to the left then swiftly to the right. Oliver swallows while blaming it on his hormones.

When Elio is about to sit, Caroline gestures, and a small smile rises on Elio’s face. He then walks over to the bigger grand and sits next to her. They speak to each other, almost cheek-to-cheek and Elio gives her a grin, of acknowledgement, maybe, before placing his hands on the low keys. The whole place falls silent.

Not even a cough dares to echo.

Elio fingers begins to move. The crowd exclaims in unison.

_Libertango_

Elio glances over to the maestro and repeats the beginning. To everyone’s surprise, she starts clapping. Clap, Clap, Clap. All teeth, a wide-smile blooms on Elio’s face, behind his magnificent curls. Then, the first chair also starts clapping the beat. The string section, next. Soon the entire hall is filled with delightful staccato claps.

Clap, Clap, Clap.

Elio’s fingers are dancing over the keys in precision. The maestro’s hand finally begins to create the magical wave. She signals and the first chair moves his bow. The violinist, literally, is ripping the superb sound from his violin. Passionately. Wow!!

Then, Caroline joins.

With the seductive melody of lustrous solo violin, two pianists are able to captivate the whole hall of audience, again, in less than five minutes.

Lots of bravos, whistles, two pianists come up front to take a long praise. Caroline gestures her hand towards the audience taking a step back and Elio bowed deep. When Elio stands up, Caroline’s fingers linked with Elio’s and he follows her off the stage. Maestro beams, clapping as they exits. After a long rows and rows of clap, the conductor takes a bow. She offers thanks to her first chair and the second.

The lights of the hall gradually comes on as the stage light dims. People are exasperated how great the concert was. ‘it was insane,’ ‘definitely an improv!’ Some are chatting away about how gorgeous the two pianists would be as a couple. Of course, the phrases like, ‘they are definitely together-together’ didn’t miss Oliver’s ear.

Oliver turns on his phone to check and see if there is any message from the sitter.

Instead, a text alert appears on his screen. Oliver blinks: it’s from Elio.

/ ‘meet me at the back stage.’ /

*

As expectedly, there is a concert hall staff, Manny, waiting to escort Oliver to the back stage. When Oliver arrives at the destination, maintaining a step behind Manny the whole way, two pianists are standing next to a grand-piano, their body’s flushed together. Caroline has her arms around Elio’s neck, Elio has his around her waist. Something sharp coils in Oliver’s stomach. But then, the whole picture looks so right. The two fit so well, even in Oliver’s head, the blond agrees.

Caroline sees Oliver first as Manny excuses himself. She peels her arms from Elio, letting them fall next to her side elegantly; as if she is finishing her contemporary dance routine. She walks over to Oliver with her hip swaying a infinity loop. She is the quintessential all female alpha. Sensual, seductive without trying, with ample European charms.

“Caroline, this is Oliver. Oliver, Caroline,” introduces Elio, who followed her once she let go of him. The way Elio pronounces her first name is very French. Kæ-rɘ-leen. It is customary for an omega to wait until properly introduced by an Alpha. One of those old-fashioned, ‘the way things are’ in social settings such as this.

“Enchanté,” she leans in and presses a lingering peck on Oliver’s cheek, just missing the edge of Oliver’s lips. Her perfume, mixture of cinnamon, marshmallow and some kind of flower Oliver cannot quite put his finger on, accentuated her natural Alpha scent. It reminds him of Christmas.

In rapid French, Caroline says something to Elio and Elio ducks his head a little. Oliver’s lips tightens, just a smidge. His French is not as advance as his Italian.

“Did you enjoy the concert, Oliver?” Caroline asks in a very casual tone.

“Yes, I did.”

Caroline reaches her hand up and thumbs a wide swipe over her smeared lipstick on Oliver’s cheek. Oliver blinks, three times, in a quick interval at her forwardness. No, it isn’t customarily acceptable or allowed for a newly introduced Alpha to touch as she does. Not even in the Old-world, people don’t. Yet Oliver quickly understands this Caroline pianist is a _different_ type of an Alpha. Though the blond doesn’t quite understands what _kind_ of different. A corner of Caroline’s lips tips up, minutely.

Another rapid French.

“(oh, stop it),” Elio replies, in French. That, Oliver understands. Caroline must be teasing Elio, the omega guesses.

As her hands move, her fingers deftly apart, her wrist rolling elegantly at her chest level, as if she is dancing, Caroline continues a small talk. With his hands clasps loosely on the small of his back, Elio appears to let Caroline lead the conversation. Caroline asks about how Elio and Oliver met. Elio skillfully turns the conversation by telling Caroline about Oliver’s achievements and encouraging Oliver to talk about his work at NYU medical school program. When Oliver doesn’t say much about himself, Elio smoothly changes the subject, talking about how crazy it was for him to play sitting next to her tonight. It appears that Caroline is quite spontaneous in nature and rather passionate. Elio adds that it was not like they were back in school, saying something in lines of ‘against the protocol.’ Caroline quips in rapid French and ends, “(you still love me).” The only part Oliver manages to understand. To that, Elio says, “(that, I do; forever and after).” She beams.

“Well, I’m tired,” Caroline says dumping her chest in a short exhale, without losing her graceful composure, and asks Elio “I’ll see you at home, yes?” Then she bends her upper body forward, ever so slightly, to reach down to her gown, right so on her mid-thigh, and gathers the fabric in her fingers. Elio helps her with the train of her dress and answers in French. She literally coos. All this seamless interaction between the two gives a certain impression in Oliver.

“It was very nice meeting you, Oliver,” says Caroline.

“The same, Caroline,” replies Oliver with a slight head-bow.

She hums, inaudibly, appearing to be studying Oliver’s expression. She blinks, quite meaningfully. Before she heads out, she turns to Elio, pauses, meeting his glinting hazel eyes, and presses an open mouth kiss on Elio’s lips. Although it is strictly lips only, it is extremely sensual. Oliver swallows hard and ducks his chin towards his chest. And the muscles around the omega’s jaw bulges a little.

When two part, Caroline takes her time—their lips peeling slowly like a decal-sticker. The top layers of their lips appear like it doesn’t want to let go. Then, she lays a quick peck on Elio’s cheek in a ‘see? now, all is good’ manner. Elio just shakes his head with an affectionate smile. It looks as though the hazel eyes just can’t help himself.

Caroline effortlessly swivels her whole body and tosses ‘Ciao’ before walking away. Elio turns and takes a step, and stands right beside Oliver. After two men watch the stunning horizontal number eight drawn in mid-air, below the artfully defined scapula, disappear behind the door in silence, Elio round around to Oliver. Oliver too turns to face the alpha.

“Thanks for coming,” says Elio as he undoes his bowtie and lets it hang around his neck.

“You bet,” offers Oliver, all the while his eyes cataloging Elio’s every move. Everything magnified. A motion slowed just enough for the blond to almost breath them in. Oliver wants to say something about billowy but he quickly decides against it.

“You look dashing, Oliver. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this,” quips Elio fondly.

Oliver just lets out low breathy chuffs. It’s clear to him that Elio is continuing on the tempo of their last text conversation. Natural flirt, Oliver notes in his head, so you _have_ grown up, debating whether to quip back. But the omega, again, decides to keep it to himself.

“So how’s Mini?” asks Elio finally noticing Oliver’s retraction.

“She’s doing well.”

Though looking surprisingly calm and collected, Oliver is definitely flustered. The very information the blond decides that he isn’t going to disclose, Elio confirms in his mind that Oliver is keeping this short for a reason. The bridge of the alpha’s nose shows a minute crinkle of disappointment. Because two men know how proud Oliver is of his daughter that Elio is aware she’d be starting her first year of K-12, coming September. Yet Elio knows Oliver is not willing to talk about the subject that is just as neutral, that, as far as Elio can tell, talking about Mini can never possibly be a touchy conversation. But, Elio yields and changes the subject. Because he wants this moment, being with Oliver, to last.

“How’s your summer going?” asks Elio.

“Well, work is work,” Oliver replies, simply.

Elio’s face muscles flinch in disappointment minutely. Because the alpha is now assured that he alone cannot carry on the conversation. The dark curls breaths out a quiet tempered sigh.

“Oh, that?” says Elio, noticing the blue eyes is grazing at the semi-grand, “only Caroline.”

Oliver has a ‘what do you mean?’ expression on his face. Elio’s lips part, feeling relieved that he found an ‘IN’ to make this moment to flow, a little longer.

“I do like to warm up before I go on stage,” offers Elio looking down at his hands, gently strumming his fingers in the mid-air a little, “but I’d hurl if I need to get mine warmed-up like she does.”

Oliver lets out an 'ah––' as an acknowledgement. Meaning, the blond understands that only a concert pianist of Caroline’s caliber could ask for an extra grand to be placed in the back stage.

“Any plans for another book?” Elio tosses a neutral question, carefully studying Oliver’s body language.

“Well, I don’t know…”

“Inspiration didn’t hit you yet?” counters Elio, in a nonchalant manner, shoving his hands down his dress pants pocket.

“You could say that. Umm… thanks for the invitation and the concert. I really enjoyed it.”

“Do you want to go get some drink?” Elio bids, gesturing his thumb over the shoulder.

A blink. Oliver hesitates.

“uhh… I should go back. Mini…,” is the reply Oliver gives him.

Just like that, Oliver completely retreats back in his shell. Elio no longer can hide his disappointment. Of course, Elio knows he lost the chance for a longer yet casual-conversation as soon as Oliver didn’t say much about Mini, a few moments ago.

“I understand,” Elio concedes, “say hello to Mini for me, will you?”

Oliver hums with a nod, “sure.”

*

A few days later, after class, Oliver feels odd picking up the prescription. In Oliver’s thick head, there is nothing going on between Elio and him. But all signs are pointing to Oliver’s impending long-been-dormant-heat. The blond’s logic is if he were to have a heat, he’d rather be prepared. Hence the reason to visit the clinic, off- schedule, after protesting the recommended tests. On top of that, there is hefty number of data reporting Omegan’s weird heat behavior; not just from those who weaned off of suppressants. Oliver isn’t going to get knocked up by some strange Alpha during his heat haze. Moreover, if he were to end up using the service, birth control in his system will protect Oliver even if ‘stealthing’ were to occur. Yeah, even when you pay for the legitimate service, people do things for the ‘thrill’ of it.

Yet, again, a dormant heat resurfacing after meeting Elio only a handful of times? after its arrest for more than two years, since Nic’s passing?

Oliver shakes the questions off his head. ‘No over-assuming, no over-analyzing’ he reprimands himself.

“Would you like to take one in our nurse station?”

Oliver nods and the petite pharmacy tech brings out a tray for him and asks if Oliver needs any instruction. Then she quietly closes the door behind her. Oliver lifts his shirt up a bit and pinches a bit of flash next to his belly button. And his hand pauses. A hesitation. Am I being presumptuous?

Oliver lets out a sharp breath of self-resentment. With a swipe with an alcohol pad, Oliver presses the auto-injectable. A tiny click. The omega snorts, quietly. And that was all to it. A subdued sigh escapes him while a lopsided smile of self-cynicism on his face.

*

**One Early Morning | New York | Bagel-Sand-Which-Masters’ | 3rd Person POV**

Upon a request from Mini, last night before bed, Oliver ends his run a bit farther away from his usual rout, to get her favorite bagel sandwich.

The whole run, Oliver couldn’t get the image of Caroline and Elio standing next to a grand piano backstage. They seriously looked a stunning pair, Oliver thinks to himself, as the chime of bell welcomes him into the sandwich shop.

“Hi, Gina, how are you?” he says, taking out his ear bud, and walks toward the farther end of a long prep-counter.

Oliver orders; a sunflower butter-n-jelly with ham and cream cheese on toasted cinnamon swirl bagel for Mini and a salmon with chive-and-dill cream cheese on sesame sourdough bagel for him. In the midst of her busy morning, Gina asks if Oliver is okay, noticing him flinching, though it is not pronounced. Oliver offers his usual small smile, without saying much.

“Probably from something I ate yesterday,” offers a courteous wave of dismissal with his hand.

“It’s Summer, Oliver. Food gets spoiled easily,” says Gina, wrapping up Oliver’s order expertly and neatly without glancing down, as she has done countless time.

Gina and her bagel-sand masters are always quick with their order. The number reason why Oliver loves this place is because Gina makes everything from scratch. If the ingredient runs out, they are out. Oliver says his thanks, the brown bag exchanges hands.

*

“Hey.”

A familiar voice echoes from behind when Oliver barely steps out of the shop.

Another pure chance.

Still half asleep Elio smiles up at Oliver’s dumbfounded ‘oh, I didn’t expect to see you here, ever’ look. Through his unruly curls, yawning, wearing a bit thin for the early morning weather, Elio’s face shows he is really happy to bump into Oliver like this.

“Mini,” says Oliver, raising the brown bag a little.

“Ahhh–!” and Elio does this quick sweep of up and down over Oliver and asks, “you still run?”

“yeah, every day.”

“Is the trail near here?” Elio shrugs in his shoulder.

Chills must got to him, Oliver ponders before he response, “sort of.”

“Caroline bugged me all week. So I’m sent to be chivalrous,” retorts Elio with a light open-arm bow curtsy.

Oliver just inclines his head as an answer; the words he overheard from the crowd after the concert ringing inside the blond’s head. ‘They are definitely together-together.’

Together–together

“So how’s your new program going?” asks Elio.

“Not bad. Considering.”

Elio hums at Oliver’s short answer.

“So what should I get?” inquires Elio, tilting his head to the side towards the bagel shop.

“It depends. If you like––.”

Elio’s wrist unit buzzes before Oliver can finish.

“Sorry,” Elio offers, then the alpha fishes out his foldable from his pocket, taking a few steps away.

He is definitely not awake-awake, Oliver thinks to himself, as Elio fumbles with his device.

“Merde,” the dark curls mutters under his breath.

“Elio!” the voice chides Elio’s swearing.

“(sorry, Marzia. I forgot my Bluetooth. How are you? How’s my little one?)” pipes in a delight in Italian.

“( _our son misses you. We miss you. How’s New York?_ )”

So he has a son, Oliver gathers. Well, Marzia is a beta and they’ve known each other since they were little. The omega reasons in his head.

“( _what are you doing out so early? Did you party all night? Are you just getting back home?_ )” Marzia says with a stern voice.

“(I only have one mom, my dearest. No, I’m getting some freshly baked bagels. Look!)” Elio turns his phone to show the front of the shop.

“( _oh, I’m jealous. Let me know how they are_ ).”

Bastard. Tactfully omitting why he was here, Oliver judges in his head. That means Marzia does not know he’s here with Caroline. Typical. Oliver continues in his head.

The conversation goes on for a while. As the sweat from the run cools in Oliver’s body and making his skin feeling a bit tacky, Oliver considers to ‘just get Elio’s attention, wave a good bye’ and head home to Mini.

“Look who I bumped into!” says Elio taking those steps back to Oliver.

Darn! I lingered too long. Oliver spit the thought in his mind.

“ _Oliver_ _––_ ”

“Hi, Marzia,” Oliver returns the greeting at the screen, awkwardly.

“ _How are you? You look good. Is Elio giving you trouble_?” asks Marzia, her face getting bigger as she inches closer to her phone.

The three share few more words. The whole time, though it wasn’t that long, Oliver feels Elio is standing a bit too close. And All Oliver could think is, I don’t have my balm on.

“Give our little one my love,” Elio says moving his foldable up back to the selfie angle.

“( _you know I will_ ),” says Marzia.

From the tone of her voice, Oliver can tell Marzia just rolled her eyes. After Elio ends the video chat, Elio offers “sorry, you were telling me about your recommendations,” while folding his phone in his palm, putting it in his pocket, before meeting Oliver’s eyes, brushing down his hoodie-covered--head from top to front.

Oliver takes in the moment, despite the jumble of messy thoughts in his head. He really has a nice face. The omega takes a quiet inhale.

“This place has selections for both sweet and savory. They even have custard filled ones.”

“Ooo––,” replies Elio, rubbing his palms together, bunching up his shoulders, peering inside the shop.

“Well, go on. I better get going. You know how alpha females are,” says Oliver lightheartedly, despite how he is feeling.

“That–, I do,” Elio agrees with a teeth-wide smile, and without missing a beat, he goes, “call me or, or, text me, would yah?”

Oliver chuffs.

“yeah.”

“Oliver––,” Elio’s eyes roll up, his forehead bunching up a little, in a ‘you sure?’ expression.

Oliver cannot help but to chuckle more, “I will,” as he assures Elio.

Elio’s lips make some shapes, as he tries to hide his glee, “I’m gonna hold you to that. Say hello to Mini for me,” and pushes the door with his shoulder, taking backward steps into Gina’s shop, his eyes on Oliver’s blue eyes. The chime rings.

Oliver hums with a light nod. Once Oliver tosses the hand salute, Elio turns, his lips quirking up into a mischievous smile as if he has just won a bet. Oliver lingers a bit, watching the back of hooded head of those dark curls of _his_ alpha disappears inside the shop.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –the very wise words from Pr. Perlman as a chapter title.  
> .  
> [ Just-in-case: concert details ]  
> –Feurich 218 Concert I with Pédale Harmonique (four-pedal) concert grand,   
> –Steinway & Sons Model D full concert grand,   
> –Bösendorfer 213 semi-grand,   
> –Johannes Brahms Piano Concerto 1 through 3,   
> –Libertango: mixture of these two, [maestro clap & piano intro](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kdhTodxH7Gw) and [four hands](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8UXlf_ZMb8E)  
> .  
> [ Chapter Details ]  
> 1\. Omegan Heat Placation service mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, in my headcannon, is a legitimate niche business that of professional cuddling/snuggling service.  
> 2\. Stealthing is an actual back-hand move by some men, non-consensual protective gear removal or damaging of it, while appearing to have agreed for a safer sex. Please don’t search it in the internet though, the stats are staggering. *sigh*  
> .  
> As always, \Thank You/ for reading, your time and interest.  
> 


	7. Roar, You Gentle Lovers’ Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting to know each other and to his delight, something that Elio never imagined to happen happens.

**Chapter Six.** **Roar, You Gentle Lovers’ Hearts**

**Autumn | New York | 3rd person POV**

A season has passed and the fall semester has started.

To Elio’s dismay, Oliver keeps him at an arm’s length. It is natural for an omega to be extra protective about their youngling. But no matter what angle Elio tries, Oliver seems to stay at a distant. Reachable but just outside the personal circle. But that doesn’t stop Elio from trying to be near Oliver as much as possible. Unlike his 17-year-old self, Elio is now a full-blown reputable alpha. Refined and suave in his own way; confident yet sensitive if necessary. He doesn’t hesitate to snoop around the social media to gather as much information about Oliver.

During weekends, Elio, with his earphones pressed in, begins to just show up and runs alongside Oliver for the omega’s early before-dawn run. As if Elio hasn’t forgotten their time all those years ago, the alpha keeps up quite well. For Oliver, being bigger and taller, finding someone to match his strides has been a challenge. Yet the blond doesn’t say anything, neither does Elio. Unspoken shared agreement without even having to debate about it. Except for the first couple of weekends, Oliver now doesn’t even show a startle each time Elio b-lined in, running.

*

“You know,” Elio says between catching his breath, one Sunday, at the end of a run, “whenever I come out here, I get to cash-in for a good brew coming week.”

Elio means he is taking advantage of a health app that motivates people to collect points based on accumulated steps during the day, meeting their set goals and such, in exchange of products and purchases such as coffee or a light healthy meal.

“Amateur,” Oliver quips with an airy huff.

“Not everyone can afford a good cup like you, professor,” nudging his elbow on Oliver’s side, “some of us has to work for it. Even if it means, pimping out personal data. New York living is expensive.”

“Whatever,” a smile comes on Oliver’s face.

Elio basks in the moment. His mouth open and relaxed, smiling wide.

Victory. Elio notes proudly in his head.

*

As Oliver becomes comfortable with Elio, two start making plans and easily fall into a rhythm of being friends. After a while, Elio notices himself getting a dash impatient about those very few and far in between chances to see Oliver. But the alpha never shows it. NYU keeping Elio busy does help. Even when the timing and circumstances are right for them to meet up, Oliver still insists on meeting _outside_ of their homes.

What made their rendezvous regular was after having Mini over for one of Elio’s open lessons session. As Elio’s late mentor did, he believes in getting young artists involved in their creative works without the restraints of the grade and merits. With the help of media & arts producing major student, Rama Paton, Elio was able to open a video streaming channel (both Youtube and Vimeo) to showcase his students’ talent. Of course, ‘it took some doing,’ as Anchise used to say.

Every two weeks, Oliver and Mini sit in the back of the mini-practice auditorium. Mini proves to be a quick study in music. As she learns more about the classical music, she is able to pick out her favorites; Bach, Hayden, Debussy, just to name a few. After each session, Elio indulges Mini with pieces like chopstick and he’d improvise and/or mash up great composers’ works like Mozart, Handel, Chopin, and Strauss, with her hastily chosen notes on the keys.

During one of the open sessions of Rachmaninoff, Mini bursts into tears and Oliver ends up excusing themselves. When Elio finally is allowed to calm her and gets a chance to have her talk to him, she says,

“You were different, Elio.”

“Different?” asks Elio fondly.

Mini nods, “like you were not you.”

Elio has never been overly expressive or gyrated pianist. But for Mini, the passion he poured on to the keys during that session may have appeared to be a little too much. Nothing too somber then Elio makes a mental note for himself.

Three students–Nicolas, Bianca, and Dodson–prepared Rossini’s Barber of Seville, Largo Al Factotum piece in a comical way. They begin by dragging a swivel chair, one of them openly rolling their eyes, after three of them mockingly fought over who’d sit where, in which end of the keys. Nicolas should be majoring in theater, Elio ruminates with a pleasant amusement on his face. In an animated gestures and face expression, three begins. Everyone is on their feet after their expertly prepared brief presentation was done; three are taking bows. Still, with overly exaggerated gestures. Elio envies their youth and praises their passion for preparing a piece, just for this. Professor then checks with Paton, whether he successfully captured all, and says, “that is going on our NYU’s channel as a separate edit.”

To Elio’s surprise, Mini loves this arrangement so very much, she practically is all giddy and doesn’t stop wow-ing. Of course, Mini’s another favorite is no doubt the Disney reinterpretation session. It is from Elio’s request to his students, for the hell of it, to mesh up any Disney songs with only classical composers. Some of the theater and drama students attend and ask for contemporary reinterpretation for the coming sessions, as adjunct Professor Elio’s open lesson session soon gained its popularity. And the mini-practice auditorium naturally starts to become packed with more standing audience than the sitting ones.

After a half-semester-long of those every two-week meet-ups, Mini starts insisting on video chatting with Elio. Each time, the alpha indulges listening to her babble. This soon becomes once a week, then three times a week, then daily video chat.

*

**Mid-morning | Oliver’s Office, Columbia University | 3rd person POV**

Oliver sits in front of his 180 wrap around curved monitor and purses his lips. The door to his office was open as it is a part of University code. During office hours, ‘open’ means you are welcome to come in. ‘Closed,’ on the other hand, means ‘occupied’ and ‘better luck next time’ or ‘make an appointment.’

To Oliver’s surprise, his pre-pro-heat self is better than he’d ever expected. Grounded yet light and calm. Maybe the omega’s personal anxiety towards having heat cycle is from the habitual dread, of spending majority of his adulthood. His hormones are simply doing its job. I hate psychology. Oliver mutters to himself, dismissing his analysis of his own psyche.

After being unsuccessful in searching the web, Oliver gets himself up and walks to his wall of brimming bookcase and mumbles something under his breath. A short quiet exclaim of ‘ah ha’ and takes the book out. An old hard-bound book. In his large hand, the book looks smaller than it actually is. He must have read it so many times; the side is different shades of darker beige, a stain from finger pad oil. It is in Greek. He flips pages in chunks and bunches, to where he is trying to look. Once he arrives at the page, Oliver presses his third and fourth fingers over the lines.

Spearmint and thick melon-rind musk.

 _?!?!?!_ , and Oliver blinks rapidly for a few times before looking up at the direction of the scent's origin.

Oliver’s mandible drops a little. Taking in a small gasp of surprise.

Elio is standing with his back leaning against the closed door, his hands on his back, one knee bent slightly, his foot against the door. How did I not hear him come in? Oliver wonders in his mind.

“You do tune out everything when you concentrate,” says Elio with a grin, “a nerd.”

Oliver stands there, with his book open on his palm. His chest rising and falling, with a simple ‘what are you doing here?’ expression on his face. No words.

“Had a last minute cancellation, facility maintenance thing,” Elio offers.

Elio’s eyes are glinting. The air in Oliver’s office stills. Then, Elio traces his hand on the doorknob. Oliver’s eyes follows and observes the hazel eyes' movement. And, Click.

The omega’s chin tilts up, just.

Oliver puts away the book, almost tossing it to his desk, without breaking the eye contact. Then the blue eyes folds his arms in, tucking his hands under his biceps with a face expression, ‘okay, I’ll dance with this.’

A synchronized rise and fall of their chest.

Elio’s hazel eyes narrow and form two beautiful crescent moons. Oliver shakes his head lightly, still holding Elio’s gaze.

The dark curls, then, slowly releases one of his hands from the small of his back and reaches out, a gentle, edge-curled open palm.

A deliberate blink.

Oliver takes in a full breath through his nose and closes the distance in a couple of swift strides.

_Don’t ever say you didn’t know._

Standing face to face, their breath quickens. They are so close; it has been years since they are this close. If Oliver leans in any closer, Elio’d hear Oliver’s heartbeat, pulsating in his broad chest.

The blue eyes stares right into Elio’s, as though he has longed to meet them for so long and all the blond wants right at this very moment is simply and desperately capturing them again.

Elio’s slender fingers slowly and purposefully touch Oliver’s nether lip and the alpha lets his fingertips travel ever so to the left-and-right, and right-and-left, again and again. As the blond stands there, unmoving, watching Elio. Him smiling in a way that makes Oliver shiver. Emotions that Omega haphazardly swept under the rug, all those years ago, rise past the weighted and viscous layer, unveiling their unrequited yet unadulterated desire.

In a ‘I’ll-meet-you-halfway-but-no-further’ gesture, Alpha’s long fingers wrap around Oliver’s closely shaven jaw, his thumb on the blue eye’s lower lip. Oliver doesn’t make a move or shift; his eyes intensely holding Elio’s gaze. Elio’s eyes narrow, only just, without a blink. _What…? what’s going on inside your head? Mhmm…?_ Then, the hazel eyes, with a possessive tug of his hand, while biting down his own lower lip, bucks his hips forward against Oliver’s body; Elio is already hard.

The blond only lets out a single quiet huff. As if on cue, the tip of his moist pink tongue darted out a little to lick Elio’s thumb. At that, Alpha slowly tilts his head and leans in close, between Oliver’s shoulder and temple. When his dark curls playfully brushes against Oliver’s ear––

“I almost came at the sight of you,” Elio whispers into it. As if any louder, the whole world would hear him say those words.

A throaty groan vibrates from Oliver. The mischievous grin comes on Elio’s face as he parts his lips, before he gently places them on the blond’s earlobe. Oliver leans in to the sensation.

Tilting his head, Elio nuzzles his nose on Oliver’s flesh, just below the temple, nibbles Oliver’s delicate earshell. The blue eyes’ skin trembles. All over.

“I still remember,” Elio adds ever-so-softly before licking it with his tongue.

Another viscous moan escapes Oliver’s lips.

Omega lowers his head, nudges his nose hungrily under Alpha’s elegant cheek bone, making the dark curls to slide back slightly, away from Elio’s face. As the hot breath escapes the Alpha’s mouth, Oliver finally presses his lips against Elio’s. Even after all these years, Elio’s lips remember. So very clearly. His wet tongue swims happily along with the languid movement of Oliver’s ravenous pull. His dark curls brushing against Oliver’s peach-fuzz.

Elio cards his fingers through Oliver’s golden locks on top of his head. A slight tug. The golden rings around Oliver’s exquisite blue eyes shimmered as Omega let out a low growl of arousal. Two kiss and kiss. All those unspoken desperate yearnings and unfinished conversations;

I missed this,  
I missed you,  
I missed us.

_Us._

Everything.

All day,  
Everyday,  
All this time.

_All. This. Time –_

__

When they are about to run out of oxygen, Oliver breaks their hungry kiss, and in a split second, Elio is seeing the crown of Oliver’s head. As Elio’s wamer-than-usual hands begins to run through-and-between the omega’s smooth golden lock, occasionally massaging the scalp with a wordless encouragement, Oliver unhooks the button of Elio’s jeans (rather hurriedly), unzips the flyer and presses his open mouth on the bulging fabric.

__

“Awgh, fuck!” utters Elio, almost an exasperated happy-sigh.

__

Oliver presses his palm, brushing on Elio’s tight-lean ab, up to his smooth chest. When Omega’s fingers reach the sternum, Oliver gives a gentle tap, busying the other hand to undress Elio.

__

“…sorry,” Elio says in a hushed tone, giddy grin plastered on his mug, and threads all ten digits through Oliver’s hair.

__

A short moments later, Elio’s boxer and pants are at his ankles. Feeling the draft, Elio looks down. The sight that comes into the hazel eyes’ view makes the alpha’s heart skip another beat. Oliver is kneeling, his his hands on his thighs, gently clasped together, reacquainting and marveling Elio’s naked front. Elio’s excitement pools into a tiny droplet, at the tip of his erection. A small quirk of lips upswings on Oliver’s softly pressed together lips. Then–

__

From the base, pressing his tongue flat in full contact, Oliver licks the entire length, all the way to the tip, then Elio’s milky-bead disappears between Oliver’s kiss swollen lips.

__

An audible heated and steamy exhale escapes though Alpha’s gaped mouth. Oliver rolls his tongue around the top, takes hold of Elio’s sizzling salute with a gentle grasp, deliberately slow-pumps the length a few times; runs the pad of his thumb on the top slit, before the room begins to fill with low slurping sound and delicious trebles of moan. To Elio’s surprise, Oliver didn’t forget how much Alpha loves his curvy-double-u between his inner thighs entertained. The omega’s quiet moans flow and Elio can hear the blond’s enjoyment.

__

Visions blurred, Elio is completely immersed in the ecstasy coursing through his system. Oliver’s low growl in between, pop-corn nuttiness in the air, the alpha wonders how he was able to live those years without this, without him, without Oliver: his Omega. Yes, _his_ omega.

__

What seemed-like light years of enchanting trance, a satisfied grunt and a punctuating sigh, Elio looks down and finds Oliver licking the corner of his mouth with seductive upward glance after a hard swallow.

__

He is absolutely and positively gorgeous, the dark curls muses.

__

“Come up,” Elio whispers, softly, "I want to taste it.”

__

Oliver stands, with his large palm still running the length of Elio’s firmness, obliging at the request. The way the omega rises to his feet is calm, steady, almost soundless, and never rushed. The blue eyes’ face glides over the air. Elio feels the gently radiating heat from Oliver’s skin. Their noses just a breath away. Two hold each other’s gaze. Elio’s throat waves; lips lightly parted, but keeping that narrow-yet-barely-there distance between them. Elio smiles, showing his teeth.

__

“Sick and kinky," Oliver grins, tossing those syllables low, and leans into Elio’s mouth.

__

Between quietened kissing sounds, two smile. Turning their heads in a wave after wave, weaving around to the left, then to the right. Elio nibbles his teeth on Oliver’s upper lip and whispers,

__

“You are the one who sucked me off in the office, professor.”

__

Oliver elbows and sucks loose of the alpha’s lips. With a pointed yet playful nudge on Elio's ribs, the omega pulls away his upper body. Elio huffs. And the omega takes a quick step back, casually walks across the sitting area and gets two bottles of chilled water out of the mini fridge. Knowing Elio is watching how he moves. Oliver enjoys the attention, though he doesn’t look back, faux-pretending Elio isn’t even there. The blond fills his lungs in a measured rate. And he swivels to take his steps back to Elio.

__

“Thanks,” says Elio, quietly, taking a bottle from Oliver’s stretched out hand.

__

Oliver takes a swig, his eyes still on Elio. One more step. And his feet knead the office floor with the bottom of his well-cared dress shoes, getting his own stance within a foot distance, in front the dark curls. Chilled water coating nicely down his throat. Elio, twisting the cap, leans into Oliver, his head gently tilting upwards. The hazel eyes probably thinks the blond is just going to give him another kiss. Yet Oliver doesn’t move. Instead, the omega reaches one hand behind Elio. And there is a metal clack, instead.

__

“Oh, you minx,” Elio chortles out a huffy laugh putting his lips on the rim of the bottle, with delightfully sated levity.

__

.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Just-in-case: chapter reference ]  
> –Barber of Seville, [Largo Al Factotum](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DBNVVc_BCgw)  
> .  
> As always, thank you for reading, your time and interest.  
> 


	8. Amor Ch’a Null’amato Amar Perdona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> of Mini, by Mini, for Mini; the reason why Oliver kept Elio in an arm’s length.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amor ch’a null’amato amar perdona  
> ; (From book-verse)  
>  _Love, which exempts no one who’s loved from loving_  
>  –Francesca’s words, _Inferno_  
> .  
> Rating: **T**  
> .  
> [ Heads-up!] *sweating nervously* non-linear progression  
> .  
> 

**Chapter Seven. Amor Ch’a Null’amato Amar Perdona**

**Voice Over (Narration) | by Oliver**

How do you tell someone?

How do you…, begin to tell someone, that they became your whole world?

How…?

That fateful summer,

Four weeks of trying, trying so hard, to heed the wise words, while doing your absolute best to fight your own biology, where your heart unilaterally declared a war on your sensibility and rationality and kept pointing, desperately reaching out, longing, yearning…

For just a touch, a glance, a smile, a breeze carrying their scent, their voice. Feeling starved for something that you didn’t know you were famished for. And after two weeks of knowing them, holding them close, feeling their heartbeat against your chest, tasting their lips, their tongue, melding into them, they to you.

Learning that you forgot where you began and they ended, or you ended and they began. Suddenly, you realized, you were no longer the person you knew or you thought you were, your entire life. That your life was now divided into ‘before you knew them’ and ‘after you knew them.’ How was I to let Elio know?

How was I?

.

The very hand I am holding, is the only thing I could have; of him, about him, by him.

Eight. Years.

That she is the oxygen, the long-awaited rain, the life-line, the meaning, the singular reason I carried on.

.

How?

*

**Slush-rain day | Brunch-topia, New York | 3rd person POV | Part One**

Elio is standing in front of the building. New York is cold and wet. According to people who has lived here longer, it should be snow. ‘It’s Northeast Winter, for crying out loud,’ one of his colleagues said to him. Because of where they are going to meet, he stands under the bridge-ask concourse, between buildings, and is able to spectate traitorous weather about a yard away without being drench in slushy rain. Promise me you won’t make a big deal about it, Elio asked when Oliver coolly suggested celebrating Elio’s birthday with him and Mini. Alright, was the omega’s answer, with his face neutral. Unbothered about small things and self-confident as ever, just as Elio remembered.

As Elio is taking in the last drag, standing next to the designated smoking area sign, he notices a canary yellow umbrella through the rain. It’s like seeing a small bright sun amidst the grey gloom. Elio recognizes them, instantly. Mini is wearing matching yellow raincoat with green rain boots. Oliver’s slack, from waist down on Mini’s side, is decently soaked. Yet his hand is holding her small hand tight and secure.

“Elio!” Mini exclaims.

The bright sun, a personal and just for Elio, carries an innocent ear-to-ear smile towards him.

*

**a few days ago | NYU, School of Arts | Elio POV | Scene One**

I veered off from today’s topic. Instead of dryly going over the stylistic exploration, I rather focused on the effect of how external constraints and pressures made into the works of composition. The end goal was going to be the same. By introducing biopic back story of famous classics pieces of the given period, I was hoping to offer better understanding via the motivation, the drive, the thirst of each composer of today’s topic. I went over Beethoven’s style, marching band beats, propaganda-ask progression and how they were closely tied with the war and battle going on in his time. My presentation was geared so as to even the general public, and for those who were taking this class as an elective, were ought to be able to understand without much knowledge. Thankfully, the room responded well.

“uh––, excuse me, Mr. Perlman?”

I turned around and a campus security gestured me, peeking through the gapped door.

“now, who blabbed?” I said toward the class that broke out into ‘as if it was rehearsed but genuine’ laughs. The timing couldn’t be more perfect.

“If one is forever cautious, can one remain a human being? Ponder for a moment while listening to this piece,” and I turned on Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 7 before I walked to the front entrance of the classroom.

As soon as I walked out,

“Mini–.”

Behind the campus security officer, Mini stood with puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.

*

**Slush-rain day | Brunch-topia, New York | 3rd person POV | Part Two**

“Are we late?” asks Oliver, standing a step behind them.

Elio shakes his head as an answer and gestures smoke with his hand. Oliver ‘ah–’-s.

Mini’s fingers are already holding Elio’s hand. Despite being damp from walking in this unusual rain, her hand is ever warm and soft. Elio doesn’t fail to notice that Mini now wearing a thin silicone wristband: GPS child locator.

The place is cozy but open, and has large individual booths. Quite Welcoming, Public but private enough, Elio mulls the impression in his head. Oliver carefully hangs Mini’s raincoat on the hook at the end of the booth and asks Mini whether she would like to take of her boots off. Mini holds Oliver’s hand, takes them off herself, then places them neatly against the end of the booth chair, next to vinyl-sleeved umbrellas.

Then Mini shows Elio her mary-jane; one had king of hearts, the other queens of spades. When they sit down, they order two large glasses of non-dairy beverage and a pot of decaf coffee.

“It’s a sunflower,” Mini begins, “Mama told me there is only one Sun. and, and, when it is hiding behind the clouds, I take out my sunflower umbrella to tell the Sun to come out. Because Sunflower follows the Sun whole day. All day.”

Elio pauses. A blink.

While they are waiting, Oliver shows Elio her pictures throughout her years. Mini gets herself up on her chair and kneels to lean forward to tell Elio about each picture. When she becomes a bit too animated, Olive reminds her of her manners calmly and quietly.

“Yes, mama,” then she sits down in her seat. She tries her best to hide her little pout.

*

**a few days ago | NYU, School of Arts | Elio POV | Scene Two**

We were standing in front of the building, Mini holding my hand. As soon as Mini spotted Oliver from a distance, her grip tightened.

His hair all tussled, color drained from his face, out-of-breath, half-running, half-sprinting, his quicken exhales making small fog-puffs one after another, trying to pass the typical unyielding New Yorkers, indifferent and cold-shouldered mass, as quickly as possible.

I half expected Oliver to start with a typical ‘scene’ from a movie or play I saw so many times.

Rushing over to reprimand Mini amicably but sternly, saying how worried sick he was, that it was not the way, using the ‘young lady’ after the sentence as an emphasis.

But––,

Oliver’s pace slowed as he got close to us and after a short pause, he fell to his knees in front of her, a step below. His eyes turning red, tears welling up. Mini glanced up at him timidly without moving her head then dropped her gaze. Her lips and eyebrows started to change into a frown line; drawing out her inner most emotion. The one that she kept-in-check, even when she saw me right outside my classroom.

Then she broke out into a loud-sob and started bawling, at the sight of Oliver; several contradicting emotions running through him. Being completely wracked and being relieved to see her safe. Then she threw her arms around him. Oliver just pulled her in close, and let out a hushed shuddering sigh as if he was holding his breath for a very long while.

It took a while for Oliver to calm her. Mini held him like a vice grip with her small hands. He quietly whispered into her ears in their speak; a mixture of Italian and English.

Once Mini settled, fidgeting, sitting in one of spare private office in my department, she explained that one of her classmates made fun of her for being a child of a single parent, during PE class. Then, a few more kids joined in and belittled her of having an omegan parent. It appeared that the said group of kids’ parents’ careless at-home-gossipy-assumptions were thrown at Mini; that her mother being so mealy drove the alpha away, that the alpha left Mini and her poor omegan parent for better gender.

In Mini’s own logic, to the derogatory terms and salacious insinuations, the best way to remedy the situation was to sneak out with one goal in mind. She thought bringing back evidence that’d show she was not a weakling was the singularly sure-fire way to shut them up. The evidence that she has a grown alpha in her life: me. Mini added she was so, so, so furious. But on her way here to NYU, she became scared and realized she left all her belongings at her school, except for what she had in her pocket. Due to her school policy, her cell phone was in her backpack. While she was finding her way to me, Mini’s school informed Oliver of her missing.

Thankfully, a couple of students who attended my open sessions recognized Mini walking by herself on the street and led her to the campus. According to Choi, the campus security who brought Mini, she just kept repeating my name and would not tell him any information about her, not even her own name, soundlessly crying, kept insisted on finding and seeing me.

*

**Slush-rain day | Brunch-topia, New York | 3rd person POV | Part Three**

Since Mini’s little incident, she sags into small defeats too easily. Even to the things that her usual self simply shrugged off with her boundless flamboyance. Seeing her disheartened form, a tempered sigh escapes Oliver’s nose and he looks over to Elio and asks, “would you––?”

Elio hums softly first, before saying “yeah, sure.”

They change seats and Mini brightens up and scoots close to Elio. Oliver lets his daughter take the helm of his phone. She gladly takes it, not forgetting to say, “thank you, mama. You are the best!” and continues showing and telling Elio about each photo.

When Mini sees Nicole in one of the photos, she takes in an audible sharp inhale but calmly says, “that’s me, Nicole, and Mama, at the Ellis Island. Like my name!”

Nicole was a dark-blond, tanned-, latte-colored complexion with grey eyes. This is the second time Elio sees Oliver’s late spouse. Once before when they came to visit during the holiday, following winter. And Elio’s reverie takes him straight back to the evening Oliver declined to lie under the sheets, next to the alpha. How disappointed he was, then. Feeling rejected. Bit of betrayal bubbling inside him.

“Ellis?” asks Elio sensibly with one eyebrow raised. _No man is an island._

Oliver gives a small smile.

When the food comes out, Oliver cuts up Mini’s meal in small pieces and suggests whether Elio would like to help her with the bib.

“Yes, please, Elio!” Mini agrees happily.

Elio doesn’t understand why he is simply open about everything to do with Mini. He always considered himself as ‘not good with children.’ Maybe because she’s Oliver’s, the hazel eyes reasons to himself, while putting the Velcro-ed ends of the bib at the back of Mini’s neck.

“How’s Caroline?” Oliver asks placing the plate in front of Mini.

“Caroline is Caroline. Feisty and busy as ever. I just talked to her two days ago while she was in Budapest.”

“A tour?”

“No,” the alpha replies casually, “with her going-steady, on a vacation,” clarifying. Elio dislikes the traditional terms; mate, lover, especially when that doesn’t fit quite well with that particular relationship. Caroline hasn’t say anything about getting married in traditional sense, either.

Oliver pauses.

Noticing the change in the air, Elio looks at Oliver. And the dark curls realizes, “oh, you thought Caroline and I were––,” and quickly bursts out into laughs. Very amused.

“I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you,” with his eyes making full blown smile-lines, “we met in college. She was my upper class-cohort. Two years. We hit it off musically.”

Elio is surprised again how good a table manner Ellis has. She doesn’t pipe up or interjects into Oliver and Elio’s conversation while she has food in her mouth.

“Even if I was into her romantically, I don’t know… she is something else,” Elio retorts, mulling the thought over as if it never crossed his mind, “we definitely would have quite a passionate love life,” and tosses a quick glance at Ellis’ direction. Denoting wordlessly that he selected his vocabularies carefully. And it is followed by an intentional glance at Oliver to see the reaction towards his meaning, “but…, too grabby, too hoggish–,” gesturing his hand trying to describe his intent, the choice of those words, “I don’t think I could handle her. She can be quite French sometimes.”

Oliver’s brows shot up towards his hairline.

“You know,” Elio carries on, dragging the last syllable a tad long, “those typical French romantic movies’ alpha female character?”

“ah––,” Oliver’s face expression softens with a small smile.

*

Conversation carries on. Talking about this. Talking about that. Ellis gets her second order of milkshake. Vanilla yogurt this time. Of which reminds Elio of his own yogurt concoction he used to make; that made Mafalda grumble each and every time his younger version blended one out of tiny diced fruits he can get his hands on, back then.

“When did you bond with Marzia?”

Elio almost chokes on his coffee, “what?”

Oliver just looks at him, making sure Ellis is not tipping her glass too much forward and says unaffectedly, “when we talked to Marzia over video chat, you said–”

“Man––,” Elio cuts in, with a bit of resentment mixed in hilarity and a sigh yet still cheerful, “I knew your French was rusty but that hurts, professor,” Elio squelches with a quick snappy glance.

Oliver only gives him genuine ‘I don’t understand’ look.

“He’s my _god_ son,” and Elio mutters Italian equivalent of ‘unbelievable’ under his breath. _Things that you have been assuming_ , the alpha thinks to himself, shaking his head lightly.

“Wait, if you thought that I was with Caroline and have a son with Marzia–,” Elio pauses, putting all the pieces together, “aw, man, you thought I was––, Wow.”

Ellis looks up at Elio, quizzically, not understanding what is going on, curious yet failing to grasp what is going on. Then, she forgets about it just as quickly and tries to reach for the ketchup bottle.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver drops his gaze.

“Was that the reason you kept your distance?” asks Elio shifting in his seat, though with a big grin on his face, helping Ellis putting more ketchup on her plate.

Oliver pauses but doesn’t look away. A blink, then Oliver opens his mouth a little as if to tell Elio something but appears to change his mind. Sighs through his nose and closes his mouth, looking at Elio’s two bright hazel eyes on him. And the omega admits Elio’s conclusion, eventually.

After brunch, three move to an arcade in the vicinity. Oliver and Elio play Free Throw Frenzy while Mini sits on a tall stool next to the machine, facing them, watching with overflowing giddiness and generous claps. Elio and Mini ride on the WaveRunner JetSki Simulator game. Upon the insistence of Mini, three shares a caramel covered apple before moving on to a movie theater. Oliver carries a giant bag of popcorn while Elio, a ginormous drink cup, holding Mini’s hand, walking together.

*

**Evening, Slush-rain day | Oliver’s Place, New York | 3rd person POV**

After Oliver tucks Mini in for the night, his phone plinks.

Phone buzzes, with Elio’s name flashing on the screen, before the omega has a chance to finish typing his response. And Oliver debates on not-answering for a few seconds. With a subdued sight through his nose, the blond picks it up.

“hey…”

“ _you just what_ _?_ ”

“Elio.”

“ _Fuck, Oliver_ ,” a pause, “ _I’m not 17 anymore. Or is that how you see me, after all these years later_ _?_ ”

“No, I just thought you wouldn’t want to be involved with a guy like me.”

“ _What kind of guy do you think I see you as_ _?_ ”

No answer.

“ _Jesus, I thought we were past this_.”

“I’m sorry.”

“ _I need to drag your ass back to Italy and have Mafalda talk some sense into you or something_.”

They both laugh a little.

“ _Before you write your own story, ask, mhm? please?_ ”

Oliver’s lips presses together and forms a thin line. His free hand comes up and rubs at his forehead, as Elio is patiently waiting for the blue eyes to agree to the request he just made. The blond’s head drops a little with a short yet almost inaudible sharp exhale.

“ _You know, I’m not going to persua–”_

“She’s yours.”

*

**Evening, Slush-rain day | Elio’s Condo, New York | Elio POV**

It feels like I am just hit by a freight train right in the head. I almost hurl. Just like that, out of nowhere, Oliver breaks the news to me.

“What?” I heard him correctly the first time but I stammer out the stupid syllable anyway.

“ _Mini…, Ellis is yours_.”

“But you said–, that winter–, years ago–, emails–,” I am stumbling over my words like a broken record.

“ _I couldn’t have her as a government ward. So Nicole offered to become my guardian_ ,” Oliver begins, “ _we… we never bonded. She was never interested in me that way. If you get my meaning_.”

Thinking back, I did sense a change in his scent; something feverish and sweet, unlike his usual tang. I just assumed, then, it was because Oliver was happy with his alpha. It all makes sense. When I was in States while Oliver and his wife were visiting, why he was all choked up over the phone. I thought he became emotional because of the memory. And I just dismissed his rather un-Oliver-like reaction with an air of indifference thinking that something was going on between him and his spouse.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“ _I… I tried_.”

Then, it hits me. Each time my parents uncharacteristically inquired about whether I heard from Oliver. Quite naturally, I simply became vexed and tersely questioned them. I was dealing with the dissolution of their marriage as well at the time. But…Papa and Mama knew.

“ _I didn’t mean it to be…_ ,” a sigh, “ _I didn’t intend anything bad by it_.”

I can picture Oliver fidgeting, pensive. I desperately want to tell him I am not upset, though I realize my tone is not right.

“ _You were just about to start your life and… I didn’t want to burden you_.”

“Stop,” the word comes out a bit too firm than I intended.

Oliver doesn’t say anything.

“I’ll be there in an hour,” then I hang up, before he protests, and shove the phone in my pocket. I stand up, grab my bomber jacket in a firm fistful without giving much thought about the weather outside. The door closes behind me, latching hard with a thud.

*

**Evening, Slush-rain day | Oliver’s Place, New York | 3rd person POV**

When Oliver opens the door, Elio crosses that thin line they have been dancing around for the past few months, in one single step, cupping Oliver’s face, pulls him close with his long fingers threading Oliver’s golden locks and presses his lips on his. Elio’s cold nose nuzzles against Oliver’s warm skin and chilled finger-tips running through the blond's scalp making Oliver’s nutty scent spurt into the air around, when Elio’s pink plum lips are all but frigid cold.

Desperate, but never rough, but adoring, tender kiss; finally, finally finding his way in full circle back to Oliver’s.

When he lets go, Oliver’s chest is heaving two beats faster than usual. Oliver leans forward and puts their foreheads together, one of his palm against Elio’s chest. Two stand there for what seemed like an eternity in a frozen bliss; their heart-beat in sync, warm exhales on each other’s face, despite letting in cold air via open front door. When Elio finally meets his gaze, Oliver simply takes a step aside and lets him in.

Noticing Elio’s expression, “she usually sleeps like the dead,” Oliver assures him, in hushed voice.

Oliver closes the front door quietly as Elio stands just pass the doormat where tiny shoes are carelessly shucked-off.

<=>

Oliver lightly tips his head, leading Elio into the house and asks if Elio would want something warm to drink.

To Elio's 'anything' answer, “make yourself comfortable,” Oliver adds, turning his upper body towards the kitchen.

_This time, this place_  
_Misused mistakes_  
_Too long, too late_  
_Who was I to make you wait_

Elio places his palm on Oliver’s upper arm. The air in the living room froze. Oliver turns to look at Elio.

_Just one chance_  
_Just one breath_  
_Just in case there’s just one left_

A blink.

“How much longer would you have let me to believe?” asks Elio, his voice trembling, in pain. He feels Oliver’s muscle twitch under his gentle grip. Elio means the blank years after the last email–the very email sent to his old school address he rarely checked.

A tighten jaw.

A long exhale.

Oliver’s lips part but, before he has a chance to utter any words, Elio gives a quick shake. Oliver understands his meaning. Blue eyes on the hazel. Everything fades, even the ambient white noise. Then–––,

_I love you_  
_I’ve loved you all along_  
_And I miss you_  
_Been far away for far too long_

“Elio, Elio, Elio–,” the dark hair repeats quietly.

Oliver shuts his eyes tight letting out an audible sigh resonated from the back of his throat. ‘I’m here,’ says Elio’s eyes, the depth of his emotions unfiltered.

_I wanted, I wanted you to stay_  
_‘Cause I needed, I need to hear you say_  
_I love you_  
_I’ve loved you all along_  
_And I forgive you_  
_For being away for far too long_  
_So keep breathing_  
_‘Cause I’m not leaving you any more_  
_Believe it_  
_Hold on to me never let me go_

.

.

.

.

.

.

\------------------------------------------

[ Chapter Seven Deleted Scene ]

**Same day, mid-night | Oliver’s place, New York | 3rd person POV**

They are curled up together on the couch, laying length-wise, Elio nuzzling his nose behind Oliver’s ear, whispering in Italian, endlessly. Elio is more than elated when he starts to hear Oliver’s purr for the first time. It’s something omegas can never fake or pretend. Oliver is truly happy.

Instinctively, Mini pads out of her room rubbing at her eyes. Once she sees them, she just smiles. Elio reaches out his arm and Mini just curles herself in, with Oliver and Elio. Then, three of them are comfortably on top of each other huddled to share their heat in the cold cold winter, and fall asleep soundlessly on the couch with Oliver’s gorgeous purr lulling serenely.

*

**Next Morning** **| Oliver’s place, New York | 3rd person POV**

“It’s not Mafalda’s but…” says Oliver glancing back from the stove.

“No, this is great.” Elio beams with a soft grin, kisses the top of a messy bed head of Mini before, sitting at the dining table. Mini says ‘good morning’ in Italian. Elio’s face turns on a genuine joyful soft grin.

“Mama makes the best waffle in the whole world, Elio,” says Mini giving a firm squeeze on the middle of the maple syrup bottle with her two hands.

Oliver, in quick yet big strides, comes to the front of the table and gently stops her from putting too much while placating her. The blond offers her some freshly diced fruits, and she shakes her head. Elio lifts the serving spoon, scoops freshly made whipped-cream from the bowl, and places a giant dollop on top of already syrupy waffle, while looking up at Oliver in a ‘I’ll show you how it’s done.’ Oliver just shakes his head in disbelief, with a fond smile. Elio knows exactly what Oliver is thinking: ‘Like father like daughter.’

*

After breakfast, Mini insists she’d show Elio around the house. When she pullsout an LP from her shelf, Elio cannot believe his eyes. The alpha’s jaw loosens with a mild huff.

“This is my favorite album,” pipes up Mini with a cheerful tone, with a giant smile.

Elio’s first record. Still sealed. Mini tells Elio to be gentle with the record and proudly adds that she listens to the digital version, thousands of times. Oliver’s eyes glance up at her exaggeration and Mini corrects herself and says, well not thousands of times but I listen to it all the time.

“How did you get this?” asks Elio looking up at Oliver who is leaning against the door frame, with his mug.

Oliver bobs his head lightly to the side, with all knowing smile, and hums out something very close to ‘mhmm,’ before he says, “I have my ways.”

“You have your ways,” Elio parrots rather incredulously, as Oliver simply shrugs his shoulders. At that, the alpha dumps out a huff then says, “you won’t tell me?”

Oliver holds Elio’s eyes first, and shakes his head once with a soft smile.

“So he won’t tell me,” repeats Elio, getting himself comfortable with Mini on his lap, and pressed a kiss on top of their daughter who is now comfortably enveloped herself in Elio’s arms. She points her little finger at her shelf and begins to tell Elio of the story books and such. Oliver brings the rim of his warm mug and simply watches them.

It was Bert who was able to reserve a copy of Elio’s ‘limited edition for collectors’ album. As it is Elio’s first studio recorded performance, as a part of Fazioli artist session project. He won the first prize with a Mozart piece. Hence, his sponsor ever since.

\------------------------------------------

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –My cheeky plagiarism of a partial quote from _Gettysburg Address_ as a chapter summary.  
> .  
> [ Just-in-case: chapter details ]  
> –Alexander Solzhenitsyn, _The First Circle_ quote during Elio’s lecture.  
> –If any of you are interested, at “<=>” is where the acoustic guitar intro of a song by Nickelback, _Far Away_ begins.  
> –Ellis = Mini = Ellie-baby; the story of how Ellis got her nickname will be revealed in following chapter.  
> .  
> With all my heart, thank you for reading, your time and interest.  
> Happy weekend!


	9. Se L’amore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part _one_ of three-part ElliOllie’s true first heat together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> Rating: **T**  
>  a set-up leading to an impending heat; translation = expositional and dense read.  
> .  
> 

**Chapter Eight. Se L’amore: my love is yours if you’re willing to take it.**

**NYU Faculty Breakroom | 3rd person POV**

“fuuucccckkkk,” a low tenor rumble of sigh resonates out of Karim.

“Yeah,” Elio nods with almost brusque single exhale-like syllable in a ‘tell-me-about-it’ tone. His face carrying two opposite emotions. One, very happy yet relieved to know Mini is his. The other, still intangible notion but a real revelation of his past since Oliver's departure and being more-than-mildly-yet-entirely shocked about it. Of which ultimately boils down to–– _all is good_.

Karim leans his upper back against the old creaky swivel chair, “so all this time––.”

Elio hums. And Karim snorts a short single cynical laugh through his nose.

“You two are just alike,” states Karim, Swedish, whom Elio met in _Conservatoire de Paris_ turned his publicist, knows the synopsis of Oliver and Elio’s summer saga together.

Elio snorts out a huff, mirroring him; in a more jubilant disbelief. Because he comes to understand that his own impression of Oliver back then has been incorrect. In a way, it’s quite wonderful. Because, Elio reasons, _we are two people holding a same soul._

“Do you think she was the reason why you couldn’t let go?

Elio rubs at the nape of his neck, still not looking up, deep in thought.

“I mean,” Karim continues, “I know it sounds freakishly super-natural but there are reported case–”

Karim is talking about the rare phenomenon between highly compatible alpha-and-omega pair, finding their way back to each other despite the odds. Folk-lore, bed time stories…. And in recent history, a true story of a soldier.

During Vietnam War, this foot-soldier had gone MIA. Missing in Action. A code word for the military officials saying, ‘there is not enough evidence to know the personnel is deceased. But we are not going to do anything since his/her missing is not mission critical enough to launch a search action.’ More than two decades later, he came home. In an interview he said, “I kept dreaming about my two children. I had to come home.” His then fiancé who didn’t know that she was with a child, now 20 years older, had a twin all by herself, 6 months after the soldier’s deployment and raised their two babies on her own. Scholars later found historical texts, from different and unrelated cultures, that recorded such bond without bite-marks and bonding rituals. The supposition was based on the power of imprinting and the soul-bonding. But they were still just theories.

“So…?” Karim trails off, ducking his head a little to urge Elio for an eye-contact, as a best friend should.

Elio looks up with a slight crinkle on his forehead.

Karim groans with one of Swedish folk phrases, (Swedes like to quote those phrasal lines,) “Jesus, E. He raised your daughter, your blood.”

Elio fills his chest, “I know.”

“Then, what’s stopping you?”

Elio palms his face in a long stroke. Another long drawn out sigh streams out his nose. Karim acts out, not just his own but also Elio’s frillings, on his face.

“What the fuck are you worried about?”

Elio leans back on his seat and runs his fingers through his hair, his gaze falling far.

*

**Part One_The Prelude: This Long | Elio POV**

I walk to the local delicatessen/butcher as I did for the past couple of months. Oliver would always swing by here and grab a late bite-to-eat before he’d go pick up Mini at three in the afternoon. From outside the shop, I find Oliver sitting in one of the tables. For some reason, his golden locks look glowier than usual. Like he is under the curated display lighting for crystal sculpture.

“uft, get a grip,” I mutter under my breath.

Yet, I stand there a bit longer and observe Oliver. My lungs swell with immeasurable joy; that I am definitely and unequivocally, out of my mind, in love with him. As I pass other tables, I instinctually cringe a little at the mood created by other alphas in the shop. By the scent, they are aware Oliver is not entirely mated. But as soon as I walk by them, I hear them click their tongue or grumble. Because, of course, they just realized that what they smelled from Oliver wasn’t only Oliver but also me. When I am almost at the table, I can see Oliver ordered his usual. But it looks like he just wrapped it back up. The iced water glass barely touched. That’s when I catch him breathe out a controlled sigh.

Hm.

“God––, you smell like heaven,” I say to him softly, hoping he’d catch my intentional rumble, deep within my chest to soothe him, with whatever's uneased him and making him sigh. I don’t give him a chance to glance back at me as I lean down to give him a quick but firm peck, right on his lips. Oliver’s hand automatically comes up to cup my face as our lips separate. He gives me a wide smile as I park my butt diagonally from him, knees touching. Oliver has this look. Like he still cannot believe we are doing this. In public, even. As if it is such a surreal event that he thought he couldn’t even imagine.

After Mini's little excursion of city streets to come fetch me, I was left to make a decision. There was no question about it in my mind. But I wasn't sure whether it was appropriate to rekindle the relationship. I wanted to. Desperately. Because I’ve always known that there can only be him. And yet, until that cold night, he told me over the phone, I kept reeling back and forth on what I should or should not do.

“you alright?” I ask him affectionately, “you look a bit...,” I gaze into him, cupping Oliver’s jaw.

Oliver quickly mumbles something that he’s okay as my palm brushes down his shoulder and upper arm. Something is different with him today. I can feel that much about him though there is no visible distress. Naturally, and unconsciously, I proceed to gently draw small circles on the flash between Oliver’s thumb and the index finger, with my thumb. Oliver lets out a feverish sigh through his nose, his cheeks blossoming in rosy pink. I can see his eyes are glazed over a little. That’s when things click in, as I sense his skin feeling a bit warmer than usual between my hands. I lean in slightly, my lips barely brushing pass his left cheek, “if you don’t stop,” in a hushed but a deliberate tease, “I might have to force a rut here just to fend off other alphas in this place,” into his ear.

Oliver’s neck and cheeks immediately flush in bright red-pink, realizing he is purring and ducks his head, “Elio, I…”

I shake my head once as in ‘it’s okay, no big deal’ with a soft smile. And I whisper, “just kiss me.”

A blink.

I pause, too, not knowing what I did wrong to get that look from him. Because in less than a split second, Oliver’s face turns to a complete blank. A shock? Maybe offended? Even my gentling hand gesture starts to feel out of place.

Then, Oliver circles his chin away, towards his other shoulder and gently tilts his head, exposing his neck.

Good, God!

My breath hitches immediately, watching Oliver’s chest rise and fall rhythmically, waiting and submitting. I hear my heart pounding hard, right in my ear drums. His expertly carved neck bare, in front of me. The lines created by his lean muscles and tendons there. A faster than usual tiny pulsation of his carotid against his closely shaven skin. Right between the crooks of his neck is where I want my lips to land, is where I want to run my tongue flat against, is where I want to dig my teeth in just enough to freshly squeeze his magnificent scent.

My rational brain wants to ask ‘are you sure?’ ‘in here?’ Instead, I just let my biology wash over me and lean forward. It doesn’t take me much before my open mouth land on Oliver’s toasty skin. Yes, his skin is suppler than usual. Without giving much thought, I gaze up. Sure enough, though mostly side-glances and pretend ‘I was not paying attention at all’ looks, folks in the restaurant have been looking at us. So, I pause to make sure I have all their attention, especially the alphas in the place. Something deep from my gut clenches as my nose crinkles. With a broad stroke of my tongue, I lick Oliver’s neck before I gently capture Oliver’s earlobe between my teeth. A form of territorial display. I’m aware it is a bit too intimate, too luxuriated for a public setting such as this. But it was either this or a growl–of which I figured, in that split second, it’d be a tad too much. After every alpha in the room got the message, I finally close my eyes and place my lips on Oliver’s earlobe and suck it lose, ever so gently.

In that exact moment, I hear him stifle a moan. I can’t hold back my smile. So, I lay an open mouth kiss on Oliver’s gorgeous collar bone, reaching up my palm on his broad firm back. When my palm lands, Oliver dumps his chest. I feel him tremble as I brush a big stroke of number seven, across and down on Oliver back–slowly, with intentional-tender rhythmic thrums with my fingertips. A finishing touch, per se. Through his expertly ironed shirt, his shudder vibrates through, right onto my palm. The resonance ripples to my core, mercilessly.

When I straighten myself, Oliver huffs out a laugh with a brief click of his tongue. He catches the mischievous smile on my mug, realizing that he fell for it, that I meant for it to happen. Oliver nudges his forearm against me with a look. Because I was testing the water, to show how compatible Oliver is to me, in full display. Though not entirely traditional, but everyone got the point. So––

“You can’t help yourself, can you?” Oliver says warmly, as he reaches his hand over and starts to fiddle with my fingers. His eyes now half-mast. Oliver is nervous.

“Could Juan and Sue-?" I begin and–

“Yeah,” answers Oliver with just enough breathlessness, before I even had a chance to finish the whole question.

I breathe slow and deep.

*

We pick up Mini from school. She's beyond adorable and happily babbles on about how her day was; showing her drawings, repeating the things she learned. When Mini hears the news that she will be staying with her grandparents for few days, she immediately becomes ecstatic. At my mildly stunned look, Oliver explains Mini loves Juan and Sue’s cats; her favorite is called Custard (because of his lemon coat).

Mini jolly-hops and happy-skips the whole way to her grandparents, one hand holding mine, the other Oliver's. She hums and sings, looking up at me with those innocent smiles. Ellis squeal-giggles as she steps up those concrete stairs into the arms of Juan and Sue. Instead of good-bye, she simply turns her head and mouths out loud, I love you, with two beautiful crescent moons over the soft baby-pink cheek bones. Oliver thanks them again as Mini walks into their house.

Like that afternoon at the ally way – the precious moment etched permanently in my memory when he whispered, "I'd kiss you if I could," – our hands just brush softly against each other. Oliver extends his last two digits and links them with mine, as he did back then.

*

“Why don’t we go to my place?” I offer without being prompted, after walking a whole block under the comfortable calm air between us.

Oliver turns his head and blinks once.

“What~?” I ask him quietly, feeling the edges of my lips tip up.

Oliver smiles rather awkwardly. Him blushing like this, openly even, is new. And I love every moment of it. He fills his lungs in a measure increments. It feels as though a lot of thoughts are passing through Oliver’s head. Maybe he half-expected things to speed up as soon as we dropped Mini off. Maybe he is wondering how he is going to handle having an alpha in a single parent household. I wouldn’t know how it would be like to have someone new, after one lost someone not too long ago. Would memories crash? Would he feel as though he is betraying Nicole? When I don’t say any further, Oliver nods once, slowly.

“Alright, then,” I say a touch more than a whisper, with a smile.

Oliver sways a little and nudges his shoulder against mine. As an answer, I take hold of his hand into my grip, threading our fingers together.

*

I ask him how we should go about preparing the logistics.

“Any type of food you prefer? For drinks, do you like them in room temperature, cold, or iced?”

Because once an omega goes into heat, the accompanying alpha has to be by their side the entire time, except for bathroom breaks. Even those can only be far and few in between. To my dismay, Oliver has this look of surprise, uhh… more of ‘how do you even know this?’ to be exact. So I huff out a subdued laugh and remind him fondly that I have seen how my mom prepared for papa’s heat for many years, so it is just as natural for me to ask those questions.

Oliver tells me that he has been using a food service as he thumb-opens an app for me. I clutch his cell in my free hand and begin inspecting his past meal plans. I hear him chuckle quietly.

“What~?” I ask him. The last order date on the screen is two years or so ago.

“Nothing,” Oliver replies with a wide smile.

By the time we arrive at my place, the meals are ordered and I did the same too. Before walking into the lobby, I request for ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ at the building concierge. A beta female confirms that she successfully entered _no visitor, no regular mail/package delivery-n-hold at the office_. I thank her for her swift assistance and discretion. She dips her head with a warm smile.

*

The elevator tings as it slows seamlessly. Now, the back of Oliver’s hand on my chest, we walk on out to the hall. Once we reach my door, I press my thumb and punch in the digits. The lock clack clicks and I turn the knob with a push.

“After you,” I gesture.

To that, Oliver just huffs.

Oliver, a couple of steps ahead, the front door swings close and chimes as it automatically locks itself, behind me.

“I’ll get you a spare so you can visit any time you want,” I say to him nonchalantly.

He takes in my place, rooted in that spot.

“It fits you.”

“hm~?”

“I imagined that you’d be living in a place like this.”

“Oh?”

“Practical but roomy enough for a bachelor.”

“I’m not a bachelor now,” I say to him.

Oliver just hums.

I take hold of Oliver’s hand and give him a tour. For some reason, I lead him to the practice room first where a pile of sheet music strewn all over, next to a grand piano.

“You still transcribe?” Oliver asks.

“Not as often as I wish to,” I reply, “besides, apps nowadays are brilliant and I don’t get to pen them in real papers.”

“Old soul,” is all Oliver say.

I notice his interest pique as he catches another piano on the other side of the room.

“That one’s mine,” I begin, “one of my late mentors left it to me.”

I tell him how much it cost for me to just ship it here. Oliver’s eyes immediately widens.

“I know,” I laugh, grateful at his instant sentiment, “it took me three months to find a decent expert to get it tuned,” I add with a long groan, rolling my eyes.

*

Oliver gets a call from a delivery service as soon as I was done showing him the kitchen. The timing cannot be any more perfect. A few minutes later, a delivery guy drops off five boxes right at my door, accompanied by one of the building securities. Oliver tips him generously.

“Will this be enough?” Oliver asks, playfully.

I just laugh as an answer and shrug my shoulder because I honestly haven’t a clue. I never had an omega as a steady partner, let alone through their single heat cycle. We put the packages away accordingly with unbelievably aligned and synchronized rhythm and ease.

“Oh, shit,” I exclaim.

Oliver jumps a little, “what?” as he turns around from the pantry.

“I didn’t think about the change of your clothes. Should we run and get––?”

“Do you have a robe?”

As a matter of fact I do. The mulberry and bamboo silk ones. So I nod.

“Then it’s fine,” Oliver smiles with a look I could only describe as serene on his face.

*

When everything is said and done, Oliver calling his office, Ellis’ school, me: Karim and also my office, Oliver double-checks his out-of-office setting on his emails. And the whole time, we are orbiting each other like a planet and its moon. The invisible planetary gravity fixed between us, in a certain distance yet never too close to collide or too far enough to separate. Never letting each other out of sight. As we pass by each other, a brush of my hand on his wrist: living room, a brush of his hand on my shoulder: kitchen.

“Elio,” his voice calls me.

“mhm?” I glance at him. And I see him taking an inaudible sharp breath. Something I notice recently. But never back during our summer. My eyes soft, I turn and look at him properly.

“I want to apologize beforehand.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know how I’m gonna be like,” says Oliver, rather timidly.

“What do you mean?” I ask him quietly. I never knew him to be like this. Him being uncertain. Nervous. _Oh, he’s soo adorable_.

“I didn’t have a full-on heat since…”

My body reacts first, taking a step closer to him, gently shaking my head.

“Hey…,” I say to him, softly, my hand reaching up to hold his jawline, “hey….”

Oliver’s head leans forward and his cheek lands on my temple.

It took us this long.

Me 25, Oliver 32.

Time has passed. Things have changed. I’m no longer a teenager with surges of hormones and unsettled angst who didn’t even understand the nature of my biology. A different moment in life. Oliver no longer has to hide behind the mighty forts and colossal walls, just to live a normal daily life as an omega. We are in different city. New York is not Crema. There is no safety of being away from hustle and bustle of city life. No place to settle aside quietly or take a pause from the known world. A different place in life. I, a respectable citizen in home far away from home, who out of pure luck found him in a crowded café, on a one busy day of a big city. Oliver, the mother of my child, a professor who is revered by all who are willing to listen and learn.

“Elio, Elio, Elio–,” I breathe my name. _His_ name.

Oliver screw-shuts his eyes, visibly trembling as those syllables reach his ears. I press my palm against his back, between his shoulder blades. Oliver breathes through his nose and leans into my touch.

“fuckkk––,” it’s an involuntary response, he smells divine. I want to tell him, I want to spill those words out to him. But I don’t. I just pull him in close, running my hand up on his back.

_Eight. Years._

It took us this long to get to this point.

Oliver moans long and low as my palm reaches the back of his neck. His head dips lightly forward and to the side as I part my fingers and slowly begin massaging the tuff of lock just above. Just by that small touch, Oliver is slowly unraveling. His long lashes flutter like a feather in the early spring breeze.

It took us this long to finally, _finally_ be together.

Here–– and now.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –Chapter title from the book + a verse from a song lyrics, _Eastside_  
> .  
> * disclaimer *  
> I am still very firm on this AU is soft-core A/B/O. But please do note that ever since its emergence, many schools of thought exist within the A/B/O fanfic world. Details of how A/B/O physiology works, variation of how heat works and anatomical location of certain parts (that only exist in A/B/O trope), the frequency and duration of heat, and so on. And yet, when it comes down to the core of it, this trope is one of the fetish genre. And I wrestle really really hard to walk a very thin line, not to make things too raunchy or tasteless. In short, ‘PWP without being too explicitly vulgar’ has been my goal. I hope you’d generously understand this decision of mine.  
> .  
> As always, \Thank you/ for reading, your time and interest.  
> ...Tomorrow, then. *head tip*


	10. At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse of touch-starved Oliver, and Elio's reminiscence of his years of indiscretions. Although in some sense, alpha!_Elio probably knew about omega!_Oliver’s impending heat, Elio is fumbling and making things do without the scheduled-out preparation.

**Chapter Nine. At Last: the Rehearsal; That Much**

**Elio’s Condo, New York | Elio POV**

It’s the darnest thing. Realizing that I don’t have fragrance free body products. I swear under my breath. I groan.

“It’s not here,” I sigh, harshly, through my nose.

I’m in my room and I thought I left Mafalda’s care package somewhere here but I cannot seem to be able to find that damn box. Then, my brilliant brain goes, oh, right, and start searching for suitable alternatives. I push myself up from the floor, rather swiftly walk to the bathroom. And I open the corner linen closet and... Whew.

At the bottom, I see a box of baking soda. I fill my lungs slowly to its maximum capacity, reigning in the agitation. Then I reach out my left hand to fish it out. Talk about auto pilot. Lean in, turn the knob, check the temperature and let the water run a moment or two. I quickly shed everything and jump into the shower. Thankfully, the castile soap blend of Mafalda’s body wash has just enough for one more wash. I leather vigorously. Making sure all the crooks and crannies are clean of any gook and gunk. This unnerved state. I grimace to myself.

The temperature of shower is just right, a tad steamier than usual, to get the tension off my shoulders and neck. I run my palm from the nape of my neck to forehead. Why am I so nervous? Then, I realize I am knuckling my stubble. Right, shave, too.

I don’t know how long I took in the shower. I’m glad that I remembered what Mafalda said about baking soda–that it is the sure fire way to get rid of the grime. My skin definitely feels de-greased. When I come out, I don’t see him. I poke my head around the living room and the balcony. No Oliver.

Hm.

._._._.  
I insisted that Oliver should make himself comfortable in the guest room. Oliver hesitated a little and I walked on into the second bedroom, while I was saying something stupid about him being almost a family. _He IS family. He always has been, you idiot_ , I chided myself. Then, I frantically cleaned out everything; sweated a bit in frenzy, trying to get the clean sheet on the disused queen-size bed. When I came out, brushing the mess of hair with my fingers, I asked him whether he’d like me to commandeer some pillows and cushions.

“Commandeer?” Oliver asked quietly, his face expression indulgent.

“That’s what my mom used to say,” I replied with a light shrug, scratching the back of my head.

Papa loved having piles and piles of pillows and cushions. With the faint but tender smile, Oliver shook his head. I thought I saw him open his mouth to tell me something but he just breathed smoothly with another tight smile, instead.  
._._._.

I pour myself a glass of wine. Vin Santo di Offida. By design, I should drink this with a dessert. My eyes trail down the label on the bottle and read the print that says 1983. I simply huff-snort at the year. In my mid-sip, I feel a warm hand on my back and I jump a little at the unanticipated touch.

“Pour me one, too, would you?” Oliver says nonchalantly.

And just like that, I’m transported back to that summer. He sounded exactly the same way he did the first week–the precious time that I impetuously wasted being so fixated on his ' _Later_.' A cool drop lands on my shoulder from the end of his hair. When I pivot my head to his side, I’m immediately hit with the scent I didn’t know I remember this instinctively. Unpopped popcorn kernel nuttiness with a note of freshly mowed grass. There is an indistinct whiff of coconut oil and everything clicks. The care package from Mafalda. So that’s where I left it. I laugh evenly under my breath. And another cool drop lands on my cheek. I stifle a breathless hasty sigh.

Like a good sport, I pour a glass for him. Oliver brings the thin crystal rim to his lips, ever so feather light, and takes a tiny sip. Without much movement, I can see him lulling his tongue slowly behind those beautiful, closed lips–to coat the liquid over the full breadth of his taste buds. Then, he makes an expression, just with his eyes. And a tiny twinge with his eyebrows.

“I know,” I retort at his face expression in agreement, “I got it from one of the event organizers.”

Oliver’s lashes cast low, as he reaches his free hand out and takes a hold of the bottle. With a nimble revolve of his wrist, he reads the label. I can tell once his eyes reach the line that has the year it was bottled. Oliver’s eyebrows rise with a strange mixture of bemusement and oddity. I just hum in complete agreement, once more. Because even as a gratitude, this bottle is way too expensive. I now belatedly arrive at the conclusion which I didn’t know then; when that female promoter said, 'if only,' with a vaguely distinct look, I didn't imagine her unusual lingering glance and that she meant it.

.

Time has passed. It is inevitable that some things change.

From the looks of it, some things didn’t. We stand here, sipping the uniquely dry dessert wine, in the middle of the kitchen, gaze on each other. A companionable silence. Comfortable. Familiar. The air of shared experience without any need for utterance or use of our vocal cords. Like we did the very first few days as complete strangers. And we still understood each other without words.

My eyes take in everything. Two top buttons neatly undone. A Star of David peeking through. His sleeves gracefully folded up, almost to the kitchen regulation, how-many-ever inches below the elbow. The fuzzy golden hair around his forearms. His skin, though, is not as tan as they were all those years ago. It’s a different season. But I remember I drew in all those blotchy red sun burns on his skin, then. Even as his skin turned to olive, then gradually into the matching shade of red clay, as Oliver settled into our little heaven there. And there is another dew drop, lazily transferring over from the end of his hair. This time, onto his collar. I swear I heard its soft muffled tap as it landed on the fabric.

It’s a sight.

It’s practically impossible to cram eight years into one derisory rendezvous. Karim would say, “oaight,lad. Giv’ it eh go,” with his poorly mimicked cockney accent, but I know I’m not even going to try.

So we stand a bit longer. Pour ourselves more wine when the first glass is in our system. He knows that I know of the fact that Oliver isn’t much of a wine guy. But he just lets me.

I undress him.

It takes me a whole bottle being emptied to do this. I step in close. Oliver does not move. No change in his expression, either. I first take his wine glass away from his grip. Oliver simply blinks. On his proficiently starch-ironed shirt, a little moist with his recent shower, still has lingering scent of his descenting spray. Or did he say he uses a balm-type?

I undo one button on the third notch. Just with my fingertips. Then another, Oliver’s warm exhales ghosting periodically against my cheek. I sense no noticeable change, neither in me or him. Oliver lets me take my time and I’m all the more glad to relearn every inch of him. Starting from liberating him from all this. Things that are not Oliver. The scent that is not his. Maybe the anticipation(?) or keenly settled realization that Oliver is really going to be mine, I discover myself not being so uncomfortable about this state of me feeling as if I’m seventeen again.

So, it is true. What those mythics and quantum physicists have been saying. Everyone is living their past, present, and the future: all at the same time.

Oliver does the same. He begins with bestowing his touches around my ribs, one hand on each side. He then glides those fingers down to the hem of my shirt. But first, his hold lingers around the jut of my hips. Then, his firm fingertips gently press against my skin there before he splay-traces them up to my flank, bunching up the fabric. I raise my bent arms up, slowly, with a smile. Oliver returns in kind and tugs my shirt up, slowly. I catch the tip of his moist tongue settling right behind his parted lips, as the edge of his lips curl up. His warm hands push higher and brings my shirt up and over my head.

With freed torso, I resume undoing his shirt button. Two more to go. He isn’t wearing his usual undershirt. I throughpass my hands onto his bare skin around the top of his trousers. His almost undone shirt naturally loosens out from the waist, as my wrists circles around him. I take a half of a step closer to him, running my palms up along Oliver’s back muscles. He breathes out slow with audible hum. When I press the heels of my palms to circle back, under and around his mid-ribs to his pectoral, Oliver leans down and presses his cheek on my forehead. Awh–, everything about him is gorgeous. I straighten my upper back and our eyes meet. His blues are two full blown black holes. My eyes take in his two bright golden rings. I empty my lungs with a content sigh. Oliver gives me a small smile. How kind, trusting, he looks to me.

I take in an extended inhale as I trace my hands from his pecs up around his shoulders and decide to cup the side of his neck. I spread my fingers and take hold of his jaw, aligning my fingers under his ear, cradling the magnificent head of his. Oliver takes in a quiet breath.

I engage my fingers. And as expectedly, his scenting glands grace me with much needed boost. I spot-check myself enjoying (maybe a little too much) being dazed by his scent. Oliver’s eyes darts slowly as I urge my hands along, down his shoulders and upper arms to free him from his button down. The fabric leaves him without any resistance.

We are two men standing with bare chest. Contently buzzed with a little bit of wine.

I feel his gaze drawing a line from my eyes, via my neck, my chest, then to my tummy. Then it stops. Oliver slides the belt free from my pants' loops and drops it to the floor. My slacks sit low on my hips, exposing the jut of bone and the thatch of dark hair trail, running vertically from my navel, down to my lower pelvic area.

“This is new,” Oliver remarks a tad low, very quietly.

His confidential voice. Not a whisper or a hushed tone. It is alluring yet unfamiliar, not quite a drawl but stretched out in a way that is not too much–just as sensual and enticing, nonetheless, as his pillow-talk voice I remember.

Even though he saw me half naked at his office less than a few weeks ago, Oliver says those three words like it’s a whole new world he just discovered. That day, my building had an unscheduled maintenance emergency. On the news of classes being cancelled and me granted with nothing important to do, I went to him. A prerogative of being an adjunct professor. It was mid-morning when I arrived at his office. And it turned out to be a spectacular experience. Because he remembered everything. His warm moist mouth on my aching erection. Hmm––, the way he moaned, the strum of his fingers, and the muffled slurps.

_Some things definitely don’t change._

That mid-morning’s event literally sustained me, if I’m being honest with myself. Just thinking about it now, energizes my base hard.

Mhm.

*

I lift his chin up with the tips of my fingers. Those piercing blue eyes. Up this close.

_God–, how long has it been?_

As Oliver deftly traces his tender touch on my skin there, I feel my eyes traverse to his right, then to left, and to his right again. It is as though his hands are remapping my body where my younger self did not possess. Omegas, by nature, are known to be very tactile and ardent to touch. As the side of his thumbs makes a full contact with the top of my form fitting boxer, I automatically take a sharp breath, through my nose. All the while, his gaze never wavers, locked and still focused, on mine.

“May I kiss you?” Oliver requests in whisper, slowly.

_Finally._

I’m literally living my past and present. As if no time has passed but the eight years of gap vividly intact and intensely stained.

“Yes, please,” I say to him.

That’s when I taste his lips. His tongue. At Last.

The lingering taste of Vin Santo di Offida clinging on his tongue is exquisite. Mixed with his hot breath, his natural tang with the lemon note of wine. Ahh–. Everything is perfect. It feels as though I orchestrated the whole sensory overload, just for myself. His lips are a bit more plump than I recall. Maybe I’m imagining it but I love this. So I relish the plushness of their state and delectable sensation rippling on mine. Even just lips over lips, every cell of my body tingles. All three trillion of them. I’m immensely gratified that we somehow agreed to take things slow, which only intensifies the entire experience. Step by step. We part and I trace my lips along the edge of his lips to his lower jaw and Oliver lets me. He lithely leans away to grant me easy access, as I press my lips on his skin I missed and longed for, dreamed and ached for.

With a slow press of my lips right under his jaw line below his ear, I begin peppering languid and unhurried kisses along the contour of his neck. One slow peck after another. Each one presents a gorgeous low moan out from him. When I reach to the half-moon dip at the base of his throat, I slack my jaw and lick the hollow there, with more gusto than that-seventeen-year-old-me-then could ever dreamed to muster. I side-glance up at him with my gaze as I continue lull-on my tongue. Oliver tilts his head back, letting his mouth to fall open. A puff of soft ‘ha’ disperses fine mists into the air.

How _extraordinarily_ bravura this is.

We are now standing next to the couch. I led him here with my lips locked on his. My two fingers gently hooked into the front of his dress pants. Oliver smiled against me, kissing me back. Our lips are swollen and gleaming pink, saturated with mixture of our saliva. He undoes the button of my slacks, pulls the halves apart and slides the zipper down, exposing the band of dark grey underwear. It stays hugging me as the slacks fall, exposing my thighs. With a languid kissing sound, his lips leave me. I take in a quick desperate breath. I catch him blink, his fingertips covering his bottom lips, his gaze falling down. Oliver hums at the state of them. They are thick with muscle than that of mine at seventeen. I bite my lower lip, shoulders rolling back, my boxer tenting, out in the open.

Oliver brings his hands and repeats the same motions for himself. His dress khakis drops to his ankles easier than mine. We both huff at the same time as we fish out our feet from the garment pooling around the ankles.

Now we are only in our shorts.

Oliver rakes his gaze over me. I run my soft touches over his bare skin and he lets me turn him around. I take a tiny step closer to press my chest onto his back. His back is not as broad as I remember. So this is how it feels like to be a full blown alpha. Huh. His skin there feels pleasantly warm. I lean my left cheek on the ledge of his shoulder as I encircle my hands on his flank to his abdomen then up north to his chest. Oliver breathes out, shakily, in a subtle somewhat of an artful manner.

I turn my chin and start kissing every notch of his spine, one at a time, winding my fingertips around the soft patch of hair on his chest. Oliver arches his back, reaching his large hand over his shoulder, and threads his fingers into my hair. I get incredibly lofty as his fingers swim, caressing my skull. I feel something coil deep in my gut. I smile against Oliver skin, pleasantly surprised at how my body is reacting to align my chemicals to match that of Oliver’s. A layer of burden I felt earlier this afternoon peels off of me. I rake my hand up against his taut torso as I buck my hip close to his tight-and-round runner’s gluts. Oliver’s hand tightens into a grip and gives my scalp a just enough tug. A great timing. I bare my teeth at the exhilaration and the surge of arousal. As if on cue, the edge of my teeth itches. I run the tip of my tongue on my canines. _Ooh, they are ready_.

I waste no time and shove my hand down the front of Oliver’s boxer. Aw, man, he feels glorious. Oliver sighs a huff out loud when I take hold of his erection, possessively into my grip.

*

“20 minutes?” I offer non-committedly, trying to level my breaths, “I don’t know,” I shrug, self-conscious about trying not to come across as loutish.

I hear him chuckle.

“What…? I don’t usually stay…,” I smother a groan, “leading to this point.”

 _Shit, that came out wrong_ , I immediately wince.

Oliver tilts his hips and I go, “Ow–, easy,” as I’m yanked forward, giving a brief but tight squeeze on his shoulder cap.

“What do you young people say nowadays?” Oliver feigns a contemplation and says, “dawg,” with an ample emphasis, though I could hear him smile.

“How many?” he asks in full jest (I hope), turning his chin around a little toward me.

“Are you serious??”

Oliver’s large hand claw squeeze the side of my left thigh (that I slung over him) and I instantly go, okay–, okay–.

“They were mostly betas and some alphas,” I confess.

Oliver shakes his head in sapient skepticism.

“What did I get myself into?” I say to him coolly, pressing my lips on the crook of his neck.

“A hell of a week?” Oliver retorts at my rhetorical question with his usual fooling around tone.

“Uft, fuck you!”

To that, Oliver doesn’t miss a beat, “you better.”

*

I tell him about a beta I was on and off with, for a period of time, who worshiped the idea of being with an alpha more than me as a person. I then tell him about an alpha I bucked heads hard with who I ended up reveled in thrill fucking him.

“Whoa–,” Oliver sounds amused.

“Yeah, he was a weirdo,” I huff out a laugh, explaining the situation.

I slapped him hard across his face cursing viciously. I meant to get into a brawl with him. But then, he charged forward and crashed his lips over mine. I resisted him at first but my penis had a mind of its own. I have never or still am not into any form of BDSM but let’s just say, I know what it’s like to take a blindedly rutting alpha’s knot without being prepped thoroughly.

I rumble my throat, “so you’re not jealous?” after mumbling something in lines that none of _other_ relationship lasted. Nor had just much gravity as ours.

Oliver huffs, and gives a little pause, “why would I be?” says softly and he exhales, “it’s something that I would never be able to google about you.”

He says in a tone as if he was not even allowed to hold that emotion against me.

“But still,” I trail off.

Oliver just breathes in. And as an answer, Oliver brushes his palm gently and lovingly along my thigh.

“I am the one who got married, remember?” Oliver says quietly, a tinge of remorse coloring his voice, “I wouldn’t ever want you to be completely resigned from being with someone. You deserve to love and fall in love.”

I tighten my hold around him, and bury my face closer on the crook of his neck.

*

I don’t tell him about an omega I courted, for about a year. In total, it's probably summed to three months, at best. I met him in Amsterdam during my second term in Conservatoire de Paris. He approached me first, after a joint festival of city-university concert slash recital slash fund raise event.

I was a different person, then.

Wrapped in an expertly tailored Giovanni, he sat down next to me. I was in my fifth drink (or seventh? I’m not quite sure) that evening. To me, he had the splitting image of Oliver if he were my age when I first met him back at the villa. He was about my height, a bit slender than Oliver. His natural hair was more on the caramel blond side than the blush blond. His eyes, in particular, had a solid hint of green threads, instead of pure blue-blue.

Having handed a lot of things in life–because of his looks and his secondary gender–he lacked the intellect and wit Oliver garnered all throughout his life. But I didn’t care. He was as good as having Oliver back in my life. In my head, then, at least. Me desperately trying to grapple something tangible. As if he could quench my longing and thirst for my Oliver who left me behind.

“No one will know how wonderful your shlong is,” he said to me with his Dutch-French accent.

I chuckled at that. Shlong.

That was what he said when he stopped charging me for his company. I think it was about a month into my weekly travel from Paris to Amsterdam, during weekends. When I asked why he wouldn’t charge me, he just casually countered, “what else? Because I like you (looking down at my penis) and I have more money than to have a uni student pay me,” adding something about my package not matching my overall look.

“What do I look like?” I enquired him.

“Ahrm––, let just say you are way beyond average,” answered lighting a French cigarette.

“As if you know,” I snorted a short tight laugh.

“Oh––, yes, you know~,” he pointed his two fingers at me, with the lit cigarette between his index and third fingers, then to himself, “I know,” and brought the cigarette into his lips and took a drag. Then, he carried on, “I’ve been doing this ever since I turned 16, my sweet artist,” (dragging ‘ar’ a little). Come to think of it, the way he held the cigarette was nothing like Oliver. Even the way he inhaled it.

The other thing I distinctly remember is that he bragged about how much his charges-and-fees jump up (to an astronomical level, he once showed me) whenever he is on his NATURAL heat cycle. What can I say? I have what alphas call ‘crack slick.’ He laughed. He added that he’d like me to sate him during one, rather forlornly. I can’t afford you. I know.

He did complain each time I pulled out, just before my knot swelled. I religiously did that, every. single. time. On one occasion, he flipped us over on the bed so I couldn’t, saying: don’t worry, I’m sterile. Though his coaxing was irresistibly tantalizing, I didn’t give into his polished cajoling, he expertly gained through years of his profession. Of course, he cursed and gave a decent slap on my butt as I pulled out. I never seated anyone with my knot. Not since that fateful summer.

“You taste almost like the pudding I had in France,” as he possessively lapped up my softening erection, rubbing the backs of my thigh, (in a tone quite nostalgic) “a tad warmer than room temperature. A kiwi fruit yogurt, it was,” adding that it was in one of the famous three Micheline star restaurants. He described how small it was and grumbled that his date paid three figures for that tiny dessert.

“But you taste better,” and smacked his lips, licking the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue.

Regardless, that ruined the whole yogurt and pudding for me for quite a while. What ended that relationship(??) was when I got a call one late evening, after three months gap. I rushed to him despite the fact that I had orchestral presentation coming up, in three days. When I arrived at his place, he reeked of alphas. From what I could gather, he consented to multiple of them at the same time. I knelt down next to him. All bruised and covered with rings and rings of angry purple. On his wrists, his ankles. Around his neck, his thighs. His back had been gouged savagely. Violently clawed over. I even saw the cigarette burn marks.

“You made me want to hope, Elio,” he said to me with coarse, withering thin voice.

When I said, we need to get him to a hospital, he just shoved me a velvet blue business card in my hand. About a half an hour later, a female alpha with black squared frame glasses came in.

“So, you must be the infamous Elio, huh?” she said with a pointed look.

She patched him up and I came to find out she was some type of medicine woman with a real medical degree who has been working with the establishment he belonged to.

She pulled me to the side after tucking him securely under the cover, him frail and broken on the bed with the drip attached to his arm. She filled me in; that he has been butting heads with the place, closing out weekends for me, more often than he should have; that he has been reckless to get out of his contract; that he never did those types of things. But he did it, so he can be with me. To live a normal life. Because he has led such an extravagant life style, he was in more debt than he could ever be able to pay off in his life time, not counting his original contract he signed before he turned 16.

“If you know what is good for him, LEAVE,” she warned with the deepest sincerity, though her tone jagged with barbs.

“Change your number, don’t contact him. I’ll tell him that you left just like any other alphas he met in his life, after seeing him like that. I know he is not going to believe me but he’ll get the message. He won’t move on, unless you do. This is his life, Elio. You’re young. You are an alpha. So accept that this is how the world works. If you, in anyway, care about him.”

*

I kiss his sweat sheened nape and bury my nose on the hair there, pushing that part of my past away. I fill my lungs slowly. Gratefully, I fare swiftly enough to come back to being here with Oliver. And I’m torn with the prodigiously contradicting emotions of how much I missed his scent all these years and how incredible it is to be overwhelmed with it now. I thread my arm around his waist and Oliver allows me, breathing out long and low. Everything feels right. A heaven on earth.

“Elio,” he calls quiescently.

“Mm?”

I feel him filling his lungs.

“I don’t know…,” he takes in a sharp inhale, “not since that summer–”

“Shhh––,” out of nowhere, I start soothing him. In a way that I didn’t know I am capable of. Instinctual. In my blood, DNA, in my construct, I presume.

“I am exactly, where I want to be,” I tell him slow and tenderly, “so, professor, don’t psych yourself out and be _here_ , with me.”

He lets out the siowiy huff once, then, takes hold of my hand from his tummy and gently pulls it upward. Soon, I feel Oliver’s lips on my fingers.

.

It takes me a bit longer than 20 minutes to glide out of him. Unbeknownst to me, Oliver comfortably dosed off. I suddenly feel useful as my gentling relaxed him enough into a nap. Just before I free myself, I feel his internal muscle gives a good squeeze around my laxing erection and I couldn’t help but to spill once more. Then I quickly come to conclude that it’s his body involuntarily doing its own thing, since Oliver is sound asleep with his pre-heat listlessness. I let the shudder wave through me, trying my best to not move too much. I surely don’t want to wake him. He needs his sleep. I wrap my index and thumb around at the very base below where my knot forms, and give a gentle wring around it as I slowly dislodge myself. I wince a little as it draws an involuntary moan out of Oliver.

The scent is devastatingly blissful. It goes straight up to the roof of my mouth. Awgh–, how I wish I could lap it up with my tongue. But, I decide to let him slumber on. When I pad out from the bedroom with a highest thread count sheet I have and a towel, Oliver is asleep just as I left him. I’m infinitely glad at seeing him like this. I do debate whether to wipe him down, as I admire lightly slick-sheened undercarriage of his. But I swiftly abandon that primal urge, fold the towel, and lay it next to his thigh. And I cover him under the sheet.

I make myself a cold cut roast beef sandwich. The deli slice is just bloody enough for my itchy teeth and slightly raised taste buds. I moan as I chew. Hyper-sensitivity kicking in, is a new experience, indeed. And I twist open a bottle of electrolyte beverage that came with the boxes earlier. Huh. It’s peach. Then, my reverie goes to the moment in time Oliver gulped down the apricot juice. I feel my cheek muscles ascend. And rather suddenly, a thought emerges in my head and nags at myself that I ought to tell Oliver about Michele. The May-November relationship I had who made me think of our summer. A gentleman twice my age who was so mindful of everything. Always so tactful and kind. Soft caresses after another; on my hand, my wrist, asking for trust and little else. So thoughtful. And his kindest gesture no one else showed me to remember what that short weeks of summer love with Oliver has done and meant to me. A life altering event that made me feel like I lost my soul. Yeah, I mumble under my breath, nodding lightly, I will tell him. One day soon.

As I am about to bite into the other half of the sandwich, the shell of my ears twitch. This is new. And I hear a high pitch whine. Suddenly, I’m overrun with the need to run to Oliver. So I quickly toss the rest in a container, press down the top until I hear it click, open the fridge door, shelve it, and shut the door straightaway. I swish my mouth with the beverage and gulp hard.

When I am finally at the sofa (felt like a million years), Oliver is still asleep. I sigh in relief. Then, I understand what is happening. My body is aligning instinctively with Oliver’s cycle. I’m going into a rut.

“I thought I was dreaming,” his voice rings low.

Somehow the breathlessness lands right in the middle of my chest as the epitome of an excruciating heartache, for a reason I couldn’t quite understand. I don’t know what I need to do with or should do about this jarring, heavy dissonance. Transference? It feels too real as if it has always been mine. But I hear him breathe and I decide to focus on the now.

“Hey…,” I kneel down in front of him.

Oliver blinks like his eyelids weigh a ton. But his stunning blue eyes meet mine.

“Hi,” I say to him.

He breathes out and I hear his purr first, before he says, “hi.”

If this is how the beginning of my rut really feels like, let this music play on. I feel protective of him. But I do not wish to claim him or to possess him. Instead, I want to have him permit me to make him be mine. As my equal. As my partner. I begin to sense the minute changes in him. He is starting to run a little hot. His breath is getting shallower than usual. I almost could imagine the spike in sensitivity of his skin, driving every surface of his body in alert. Through all these series of burgeoning changes, Oliver is ever more handsome and striking to me. Oh, I’m helpless.

“Let’s get you more comfortable.”

I help him sit up and I’m a bit confounded (just a bit) that Oliver is letting me. But I center myself not to infantilize him. Oliver pulls on the cover over one of his shoulders. I huff under my breath seeing him self-conscious about being naked in front of me. He thanks me, after noticing that I laid a towel there.

“You remembered,” he states quietly, as if it is such a big deal–while letting me lead, a half of a step ahead. I just hum in acknowledgement. Back when we first made love, Oliver wiped my cum on his belly with the billowy. He always liked to clean up before our bodily fluids became tacky or flaky.

On the way to the guest room, I feel a light tug on my hand. I turn my head around. When our eyes meet, Oliver give me a single head shake and says, “your room.”

Mhm–

I nod.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Just-in-case: chapter details ]  
> –About the wine: in Marche (Italy), there are several Vin Santo made similar to Tuscany, but the unique one is called _Vin Santo di Offida_ which is made with the rare Passerina grape which, as a dry wine, has notes of sweet Meyer lemons and fresh fennel.  
> –Giovanni: a brand that does more rental.  
> –I tend _not_ to bring any personal experience directly into drabbles I transcribe and post in AO3. But in this occasion, a past friend of mine did actually travel 16-hour round-trip drive, every Friday after class, to rendezvous with his sweetheart to spend every weekend with her. As a college student, he couldn't afford to fly. So... Talk about dedication. Sadly, a few years later, I heard, in passing, from someone who is still in contact with him that two are not together anymore. (a story I know of a celebrity is way worse. His wife gave him a kidney and nursed him back to health, that took a couple of years. But he divorced her for a younger woman. *shrug* But hey…, who am I to judge, right? As people say, love is never rational or logical. Also I don't know the whole story or the inner workings of their relationship. *awkward smile*)  
> –snuck in a bit of _Find Me_  
>  –ehrr…umm…, my rating scale is inherently off. *clearing throat nervously* you will let me know if this needs a rating jump, won’t you? *awkward smile with a sweat bead*  
> .  
> As always, \Thank you/ for reading, your time and interest.  
> Wish you all a great day today! Do please stay safe, be healthy: mind, body, soul.


	11. Now, finally whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five days of Oliver’s heat and Elio’s biology seamlessly aligning with his mate. Elio’s first experience of his genuine rut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> weaved in a lot of book-verse.  
> ; [Translation] another expositional and dense read (yet, again)  
> I sawee~~~*running away with the flappy-wavy arms of Kermit the frog*  
> .  
> 

**Chapter Ten. Now, finally whole**

**Elio**

When I wake up next morning (despite a little chill hanging in the air), I’m covered only around my low abdomen and just above my thighs—my own bed sheets are heavily scented with Oliver. It isn’t just my sheets. The whole room is permeated with the scent of him and the mixture of us. Nothing volatile or disquieting.

And the room is quiet; just like a HD photo of a stolen moment in time, from a far-away cabin with a soft misty plume of fog over a calm lake surface. A hint of detectably finite precipitation but not enough to call it muggy or humid. Just dash-light enough compression that, to anyone, it will register as soundless and a peaceful snooze, for a good long while.

It takes me a couple of seconds to reorient myself. Except for being a bit sore, I feel well rested. When I reach my palm over, there is no sign of Oliver. I turn my head slowly, to his side of the bed. It has a definite sign of being slept on but it’s cold on touch. Then, a sudden thought occurs to me. I brush-push my palms over my face towards the top of my bed-head, and gather two fistful of hair into my grips, groaning low.

_Augh–, don’t tell me he’s out for a run._

Because it is very Oliver thing to do. I remember him telling me that he always exercised, even when he was sick, he’d still head out for a jog early in the morning. He went on and said, he’d exercise in bed if he had to. Even when he’d slept with someone new the night before—when I asked him in jest, did you run on the Sabbath?

I roll back onto my side. On the bed side table, I find there is a glass of water. Its surface just beginning to dew. I stare at it rather hazily, while finding myself absurdly moved by this small gesture.

As I bustle to get up out of the bed, my eyes catch the glimpse of outside. It’s just started to snow. The flakes are large. Like the ones you see as a paper-cut out decoration during winter season. The ones that pile up, instead of transforming into black slush as soon as it hit the ground. The ones that silence and still everything.

Being New York, people are already out and about undeterred—neither by the snow or the cold, their breath casually fogging up in front of their noses and mouths, as they breathe and go about their day.

I push myself up and thread my legs into my go-to sweatpants. It’s an old pair. I let go of the elastic waist band as a lazy long and wide yawn overcomes me. And I just stand there for a moment and let it pass through: all over me. When it is done, I shake the shiver off: bruah–u–ah! Without even checking myself in the mirror, I grab a fleece-lined long sleeve and walk out of the master bedroom.

*

The delicious smell of frying bacon hits me, as my head comes through the neckline of the shirt. I run my fingers through my hair to at least be presentable. Because I have general idea of how wicked I’d look with a mixture of post-sex, on top of my usual bed hair. As my wayward curls most definitely and willfully defy the laws of physics. So I do my best to smooth out the mad angles and fluff the odd squashes.

When I’m near the kitchen entry (that connects the living room), I see Oliver’s back. Oliver is wearing a blue bamboo silk house robe. The threads are so fine enough it glimmers and shimmers ever so lightly. I cannot help but to sigh, happily, under my breath.

It was a spur of the moment purchase. I was walking by the Soho and something behind the show window caught my eyes: light blue robe. A very nearly exact color of Billowy. Not pale or pastel blue, nor too ‘oh, look at me I’m the symbol of wealth’ feel.

Oliver’s hand moves effortlessly as he breaks an egg one by one, in the same cast iron pan. I pause for a while to just admire him from not-so-clandestine privacy, just outside of his personal space. I bask in this small paradise. Though it was only a few steps away, I can tell he has already showered and shaved. His broad back that my robe is contouring effortlessly, lean juts of bones and toned muscles, non-American posture (no hunch in the shoulders or weird slants but a proper upright), wide shoulders, glacial skin, well-groomed features. Despite his secondary gender, he is definitely going to age gracefully. And I know all of him is only going to get better: like a fine wine.

“Did you sleep well?” Oliver tosses the words, warmly, without looking back.

My cheeks react to his voice first and I feel them flush, yet I don’t mind my body’s involuntary response. I stride along and put my hand around his waist from behind.

“Good morning,” I greet him, pressing my lips on his neck, and I mumble low, “how’d you know?”

Oliver makes a quiet noise of acknowledgement as I linger my lips there. He brings up his right hand and lightly taps his index finger on the tip of his nose.

“Gosh, I’m sorry,” I quickly pull away, “I’ll go shower.”

Oliver chuckles and takes hold of my hand on his waist with his left hand, “no, silly, it’s fine,” and turns off the knob and covers the pan with the lid in a swift motion.

“Au contraire,” says turning his chin and gives me a peck and whispers, “you smell great. Good morning.”

Although I cannot quite banish the lingering sense of gawkiness in my head, over yesterday’s events (me ordering food on his app without conferring with him, inviting him over to my place without thinking about the change of clothes or his preference of toiletry, making ridiculous sleeping arrangements of insisting him to settle in the spare bedroom, fumbling with shower gel, and the wine, ugh– the wine, telling him about my sexual prowess without much resistance while confessing the past encounters like they were from a story book, and all that), the extraordinarily mundane and exceptionally natural way we both fall into a rhythm of being together, as if we have been doing this all along is…perfect.

I thread my hands in between his skin and the robe. Below the hem, I catch his black form-fitting boxer on his long well-defined runner’s thigh. I huff-smile under my breath. He somehow found his underwear I tossed into the washing machine last night, before I had a quick bite to eat. Self-gratification swells in my chest on the decision to invest on a washer-dryer-in-one.

“I’m supposed to do all this,” I tell him low, with a smile.

“Oh, don’t you worry, you will,” Oliver chuckles.

Oliver then tells me he wanted to do something before he becomes entirely _not_ him, before he confesses, “I wanted to see if Mini is doing okay.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Briefly, she woke up long enough to say good morning and fell back asleep holding Custard in her arms, nuzzling her face.”

“The cat lets her do that?”

“Apparently,” Oliver chuckles, too.

We share our first breakfast together. Oliver barely finishes an egg and pushes the bacon to the side. I catch him wince but I don’t say anything to him. He does manage to down one of the fruit bowl and drink the plenty adequate amount of electrolytes.

*

**Six Days Later, Present Day | Elio’s Condo | 3rd person POV | Part One**

After almost five days of hazed heat, Oliver wakes up and finds his old blue billowy button down, hanging next to his khaki slacks, washed and pressed. Right at the moment, Elio walks in, to check in on him.

“Hey… you’re up,” Elio smiles admiring him, holding a large coffee mug; a thumb at the rim and other three fingers at the bottom, his upper back slightly hunched. Elio leans on the door frame and takes a moment to bask in the sight. He has a look of a person who is undeniably and madly in love.

Then he treads to the bedside and sits sideways, his back towards the bed, next to Oliver.

Oliver peels himself halfway to lie on his side, one leg bent lightly at the knee over the other. Elio reaches his free hand and runs his palm gently over Oliver’s skin. Two blues meet two hazels. And two men just smile, their eyes on each other.

“How are you?” asks Elio, leaning down to give him a kiss.

Oliver quickly becomes so self-conscious and waves Elio away, “morning breath.”

Elio just laughs at that, placing his mug at the night stand.

“Rest of the clothes are in the dryer,” Elio pivots a little more, sitting closer, bringing one leg up lightly folded, “would you like some breakfast?”

At Oliver’s look, Elio just lets out huff like laughs, “they deliver,” and he adds, “as it turns out, I’m the one who went through majority of them.”

Elio remembers Oliver teasing him a few days back of ordering five boxes of prepped-food. Oliver just chuckles at that. Alphas, in general, continues to mature into their mid-twenties. And Oliver being a late bloomer of his full-on heat, sans the suppressant, therefore, drained a lot from Elio.

“Was I terrible?”

“No, you were perfect,” then Eilo’s trademark goofy face comes on, “all clingy and wouldn’t let me go, geez~, talk about no rest,” Elio teases. Oliver shoves Elio’s face with his right palm.

“hey~!” says Elio, a wide smile on his face. And they chuckle together.

Oliver curls up close and Elio is now running the back of his knuckle along the blond’s spine, gentling and soothing Oliver.

“What do you remember?” Elio asks tenderly.

Olive fills his lungs. Elio’s eyes carefully study him. With an audible exhale, Oliver pushes himself upright and repositions, leaning against the head board. He takes a moment to try and brush away the sleep, palming his face. All the while, Elio is just admiring him. Then, Oliver offers an inviting hand. Elio gives him a small smile and brings himself up next to Oliver. At Elio’s lightly raised eyebrows, Oliver goes:

“Bits and pieces.”

*

**Elio’ Reverie | Elio POV**

Omega’s heat behavior, at its essence, is an amplified version of existing traits. But who knew my bathing suit analysis of Oliver, all those years ago, would help? The one that took me a while to realize back then, Oliver has four personalities depending on which bathing suit he was wearing. My adolescent, hastily reached upon, knowledge of Oliver which to expect that gave me the illusion of a slight advantage. That clumsy analysis that I more-than-gladly abandoned (without a moment of hesitation, like a small bag of illegally obtained joint at the sight of a police officer down the street), once that fateful midnight came and passed.

Two distinct aspects I came to discover about my Oliver in his heat; One, the full on heat makes him less verbal. Two, Oliver becomes extremely (most delectably, for me) primal. An evidence that he definitely hid himself under so many layers and behind carefully tailored veneers. Talk about reigning one’s desire and passion, under the prim and proper outwardly composure. Well, not having proper natural heat cycles for majority of his adult life, it is realistically understandable. So, the highlight and the gist ultimately boil down to is; Oliver practically being insatiable was beyond understatement.

*

The first day was red. Bold, set in his ways, very grown-up, almost gruff and ill-tempered, hasty, determined, snappy. On that day, the words he said were ‘harder,’ and ‘more,’ in the categorically smouldering and downright beguiling tone. Indeed.

Though our bedroom life did have some short history, red-Oliver was totally different person. Feisty, making me beg for his attention. One moment, he was this seductive omega, then the next he turned into a whole another enchanted entity, making me earn my keep to sate him. If we were a prospective pair who were just beginning to know each other, the way Red-Oliver played a tug-n-pull with me was the textbook dominance fight. It sure hell fit the bill.

He didn’t hesitate to claw his fingertips all over me, which made my skin ablaze in crimson like a brush fire, spreading across the unattended field in a drought. Thanks to my rut syncing with his cycle, the irritation and initial pain turned into an exhilarating turn-on. When I didn’t do him the right way, he snapped and gnashed his teeth at me. I had to resort to grip onto the back of Oliver’s neck, so he’d stop thrashing. He was instinctively testing me. He grabbed hold of a handful of my hair with one hand, while arching his back and pivoting his hips. Simultaneous display of himself and baiting to lure this alpha, me, further and deeper. Tantalizingly irresistible and unspeakably magnificent. I took hold of his arm with my right hand and wrenched it behind his back. Oliver gritted his teeth, lifting his hip up and in, ‘go on then, try and take me.’ A dare.

_Fuck!_

So I took hold of his jaw with my other hand as I curled my upper lips. A light warning. To that, Oliver gave a restrained but a dear snarl, and twisted himself free from my grip. Defiant. I swiftly proceeded to tackle him by the waist and we fell diagonally on the bed. I pressed my palm right under his throat, on the top ridge of his sternum.

“You already know I’m yours,” I said through my gritted teeth with hypnotic low growl, “I’ve always been.”

I nudged my knees with just enough deliberate intention and Oliver pulled his lower back more onto the mattress and parted his thighs — simultaneously up-tilting his pelvis, giving me access. A low enticed growl left me, instantly.

When Oliver had me exactly where he wanted me to be, he uttered ‘more,’ ‘harder’ with a rather minxy grin on his face — though he gave me a sufficiently noticeable frown when I put him under submission. At the end of the fifth hour, my inhibition and rational restrains had already left me.

Completely, I might add. And I found myself mounting him with the matching ferocity and vivaciousness. I was happy to oblige his demand of: more, harder.

After a short nap, I woke up being unimaginably aroused. Apparently, he was kneeling over me, lapping me up, even in my sleep. Limitlessly ravenous. Once he noticed that I was coming to semi-lucidity, he pumped his grip around-n-along my already achingly swollen erection. With his other hand, Oliver reached his fingers over and behind himself. When he brought it back, I caught the inside of his softly unfurled fingers. Shiny and generously coated with his slick. _Awgf… and, the scent!_

Before I could do anything, Oliver wrapped those fingers possessively around my desperately-screaming-for-attention salute. What made waking up to Red-Oliver, hovering over me, more entrancing was his two black holes that were encased in gold threaded sultry iris dead-focused on mine. With a singular message. The want, the need, the desire for me.

I engaged my core and surged up forward to take hold of his lips into mine. Almost immediately, Oliver’s palm stopped me in mid-air as he repositioned himself. Without giving me a moment to catch up, as my back was about to plop back down on the sheet, Oliver began settling over me. My beading-at-the-top erection in Oliver’s grip aligned by his lissome wrist movement, the swollen head soon made a full contact on his ring muscle. Then, Oliver’s body smoothly glided down all the way, in once single motion.

_Whooaaa–, fffffuuucck._

With just enough resistance, his toasty body engulfed me whole. Though he was slicked thoroughly, Oliver was deliciously tight. As his head tilted back slow, Oliver’s chest vibrated gorgeously. And my eyes gathered the beautiful scene of Oliver pumping his own erection, as he began moving his body, arching his chest upward. The undulation, the rhythmical bellow of his taut abdomen, tightly engaged quads and two gorgeous lines of his tendons leading to his magnificent lower half. _Who Are you?_ I was completely enraptured. My knot started to swell a little faster than previous ones but Oliver didn’t slow down.

“You’re insane,” I breathed out those words, raggedly, taking hold of his superbly sculpted hips into my grip.

It was like going 100 in a 55; weaving in-n-out of the lanes and between-n-through everybody and everyone, passing one after another sometimes two or three at once. As the engine revved through my entire body with thrilling high—feeling invincible and far more superior and might. He kept that speed until he could no longer continue and I was completely seated-n-locked inside him. What pushed my already whirring-with-ecstasy head into another level of crazy head spin was that he started rocking his pelvis to-and-fro. The external grind of his movement was matched with distinct intervals of his internal muscles wrapped around my erection, and the full-fledged knot. Oh, my fucking god. I shuddered hard, profoundly disoriented. Oliver moaned long and low as he continued. And with the blissful high coursing through my entire body, I spilled into him.

.

Yellow: sprightly, buoyant, funny, not without barbs—don’t give in too easily; might turn to red in no time. Day two of his heat started with uncharacteristically giggly Oliver in the morning. Every little touch, Oliver was super ticklish. His cheeks tinted in cherry red hue. Wide smile across his face.

We made love in waltz-like tempo. A tad vanilla for my usual standards but just as exhilarating and satisfying. Oliver gave generous kisses and let me suckle on his scenting glands on his neck, on his inner thighs. His gaze locked on mine, Oliver even smized, on our second carnal grind—as the sweat beads fell onto his skin, from my forehead. On our fourth ‘lazy Sunday afternoon-ask’ love making, Oliver buried his nose on my perineum, playfully tongue-fondled my plump double-u-s, like a giddy kindergarten child happily going to town with his favorite lollipop, until I came without being touched.

Then Oliver swiftly became, ‘don’t touch me! I want to be left alone,’ then, less than a second later, ‘no! don’t leave me, I do want to be with you.’ My soft whispers needed to be dialed up and I had to be careful with my touches. Because yesterday’s Red-Oliver had me go wild and I left indelible marks and traces all over his body. Even though I was quite proud of myself that I warded off my basal need to bond-bite him. Oliver hissed even at my lightest touch, wherever my fingers landed. No matter how deft my palm brushed against his skin. Everything I did or attempted to do was wrong, for him. But Oliver craved my gentling and, if anything else, my attention. He yearned for my verbal reassurance like a bottomless pit.

After countless trial and error, I eventually found the only small spot that I could stroke my fingers: on his shoulder cap. This went on what seemed like hours. When I managed to get in the bed next to Oliver, his legs tangled over mine, with my lips over his forehead.

“Are you hungry?” I probed quietly.

Oliver just shook his head.

“You need your strength up. Maybe something light?”

“No.”

“Then, how about something to drink?”

“Later,” Oliver replied burying his nose on the crook of my neck.

Later! not the one that was chilling, a slam-dunk salutation that shoved aside all the niceties. Not the one that always seemed to leave a sharp aftertaste to what until then may have been a warm, heart-to-heart moment. Not the one that didn’t close things neatly or allow them to trail off. Most of all, not the one that just tossed goodbye, or be off with you. Like the time I whispered, “Fuck me, Elio,” into his ear on our way to the post office, yellow-Oliver’s ‘Later!’ was said in a way that meant exactly what I wanted it to mean.

“Il mio cauboi, then, let’s get you something to drink,” I coaxed him.

His lips drew a smile line against my skin and I felt immediately emboldened. So I decided to press on a little more.

“I want you hydrated at all times, la muvi star.”

Oliver chuckled against my skin softly and confessed with a small sigh that he missed my mom, asking how she has been doing.

.

Green, which he seldom wore: acquiescent, eager to learn, eager to speak, sunny. The very mode I wondered, why wasn’t he always like this?, all those years ago. In the rhythm of Bachata, Oliver was eager to let me learn every inch of his body without being needy or inadvertently playing hot-n-cold. Like the quote by D.H. Lawrence, our hearts thrashed on and on, like a wild mustang just caged in the stall, how many ever times in a row, seamlessly. Rut hormones were a thing of marvel. Even now, I don’t recall having a refractory period in between that day. Then, a mutual peace serenely settled over both of us, with total and immense satiation and carnal satiety.

His nap was not as fitful like past two days. And Oliver allowed me to indulge on running a bath for him. And even more, on shaving his two-day stubbles. I had him sit in the bathtub, making sure the water temperature was very close to where he was comfortable. Side-straddling the edge of the tub, I was over the moon. The simple act of shaving his exquisite face. He was exceptionally calm. Turning his head as I moved my old-fashioned single blade on his skin. The epsom salt bath was doing its magic on his body. When I was almost done,

"Oliver," he called me. Warm and quiet, yet unsure and timid.

"Mhm?" I replied, wiping the last bit off foam from the blade against the towel.

"Can I say something?" he began softly.

"Anything," I replied quietly, as I began caress-wiping his shaven cheek with a fresh towel.

"I missed you, you know."

My breath hitched. Luckily, my body came around to sigh quietly because without it I don’t know what I would have done. What could one say to…? Even in my head, I couldn’t finish my thought. And my heart felt like it was mercilessly squashed by a firm grip. As if the entirety of my chest was being ripped into million tiny pieces. And each of those small torn pieces turned into shards of glass. My chest cavity ached and ached, with a heavy zing that made me feel like I would never ever feel again. I gulped, and struggled to gather myself. But I did manage, pretending that I was okay and resumed my hand first and replied,

"I missed you, too."

"But so, so very much."

"Same here."

"So many things,” Oliver said in barely audible voice, “so many things… ."

I paused my hand, "about what?"

"You know…, everything, the whole thing, those six weeks were...,” Oliver sighed quietly, “but there are rules, responsibilities, and… priorities…"

I quaffed the stinging vehemence down, though my throat was getting dry, before I said, "it won't be like that anymore, I promise," and I meant it.

Oliver took in a sharp inhale but did not say anything for a while. Something about that moment, I just… . And my vain efforts to hide behind the moving hand to wipe his face, in the end, came to a full stop.

"Do you?" Oliver asked, his voice fraying at the end.

"Absolutely."

Then, Oliver went quiet. I sat there without words. Towel still clutched in my grip.

"I miss Mini," Oliver breathed.

"Me too," I smiled as I offered my answer.

Another pause.

"She's all I have."

Another squeeze right in the middle of my chest. The ache curled and wound devastatingly slow and gave a hard-n-taut wring around my heart. That wrenching emotion quickly topped right up under my throat, giving my lower jaw nice, firm, tick-like upper jabs. A disconcerted series of taps that wasn’t really there. I had to swallow hard so I won’t crumble, this time literally into pieces.

"You have me, now," I said to him quietly, hoping that my genuine answer would get across.

Oliver breathed slightly leveled, his half-lidded eyes falling a far somewhere, not here.

Somehow the air around the bath transformed into a semi-vacuum. We both knew the memories that were carved permanently in our hearts and mind were being unspooled wordlessly. In a speed that we could never grapple. Ever more slow and in infinitely dawdling. As if to test the strength of our core being. Though I managed to sit down and brought my knees up, crossing the legs at my ankles, I was lost on what I could or should do. Because a part of me wanted that moment to continue until we both untangled everything that followed after Oliver’s departure, at the end of that summer. The other part of me just wanted to gather all those threads, of interconnected past of ours, into my arms, scoop them up haphazardly if I had to, and offer him some comforting words and assurance. That, because of these, we were finally here. That, without these, the series of events that followed might not have led us to this moment. But I knew that it would just be useless strings of words. So I sat there, next to the tub.

When Oliver finally met my eyes, I held his wonderful blues, with gleaming gold circles threaded like a piece of art— without a blink, without a slightest falter, without any wager.

"You swear?" Oliver asked barely audible, like something stretched so thin, holding him there, only just.

I filled my lungs, the back of my eye sockets felt hot but I didn’t let the tears fruitlessly gather.

"With all my heart," I vowed those words to him.

Slowly, Oliver smiled wide and my cheeks mirrored the same. And I resumed, softly toweling down the shaving foam off his beautiful face. The hot tears trailing in the back of my throat.

.

Another yellow day.

Fourth day started right in the middle of yellow and red spectrum. Oliver was all curled up, his nose buried in my pillow case. Restless, tense. Like he was half-in and half-out at the door. The battle between my rut hormones and my rational brain clashed hard. I couldn’t seem to let go of my own analytic competition within. I then felt absolutely inadequate as an alpha that I couldn’t get my Oliver out of this. And the stupid head of mine went waay out of the field, in wild tangential direction, into a preposterous thought—that yellow-Oliver might feel better if we were back at the villa. What should have been a fleeting thought then turned into me briefly picturing my childhood, then that summer at the villa, the downtown B., and around the whole Crema, serene and solitary, a haven of its own right. I was suddenly overcome with a stark yearning to be there, that was so ruthlessly strong, it almost felt physically painful. Only that I clearly knew it was not the real source of pain.

Maybe it was me processing my past, awashed in my rut hormone, letting it do whatever they were supposed to be doing in my body and mind. Though I never heard rutting alpha being hormonal this way. So, I resorted to read my journal to Oliver, instead of fighting against this muddy melancholy. As a clutch for balance. In honest truth, my hand paused at the moment my fingers were about to touch an old leather bound spine. All these journals… I sighed. Though I kept every and all I’ve written, I haven’t opened any of them for a while. They held the poems and quotes I collected, most of all my ‘would’ve, could’ve, should’ve’-s and the deepest, dire wishes. And I wrote one careful stroke of letters and words at a time, pouring out my heart and soul, onto the surface of every single page. But if this were to be my way of putting a final punctuation mark on the trains of events of my past, I decided that I rather plough through it when it was brutally vivid and profoundly potent. No matter how heavy or dreadful each step might be.

I stilled myself and began reading aloud, remembering to add the resonance from my chest. Not skipping any: even the tear blotted lines, hand smeared pages. Unlike those blank years, this me (eight years older and a bit more wiser) was telling my Oliver the story of my late teens, directly. The unfiltered waves of emotions, after being with him for that short but unforgettable six weeks, unhindered, transpassing the years of absence and separation.

My fingers were flipping to the next page, one-third into my second journal. Oliver bustled quietly, still under the sheet.

“Let me see you,” I said quietly.

“I don’t deserve it.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Oliver buried his face a bit more, into the pillow.

“Please, (my life, my everything), let me see those beautiful blue eyes.”

“No.”

“Elio, Elio, Elio––”

I continued soft words into his ears, mixture of Italian and French. Oliver seemed to respond to Italian more favorably, so I skimmed off French as I carried on further. How much he means to me, how I’m going to take care of him, how much I want him, how I will make him feel. Even if I am to spend the rest of my life begging and pleading, I said to him, that I will never stop until the day he'd understand and accept me.

“(I’m not going anywhere),” I confessed in whisper, gentling Oliver.

I don’t remember how long it took. But Oliver finally slid down the cover and I was able to see his face. A few moments later, he let me sidle up to him. When I was about to finish the second journal, Oliver’s cheek was on my tummy right under my chest, his arms tightly wrapped around my waist, as if to say, Where were you?

.

Then, blue: the afternoon he stepped into my room from the balcony, the day he massaged my shoulder, or when he picked up my glass and placed it right next to me. That-Oliver who kept me up till the dawn once the twilight blanketed somewhat clumsy magical moments. The very night of half-transed hours that he whispered to call him by my name and he’d call me by his. The one who leisurely sucked off the sweet peach juice coated adolescent penis of mine.

Just Oliver and Just Elio. Even though I was aware Oliver was still in his heat haze, blue day Oliver was simply him. The guy who would say, “er–, I’m gonna do a hard pass on that,” politely with a straight face. The one that would tag our time on my bed as ‘NLE; wish it was longer’ in a calm, collected manner, as if he was doing a review on a movie.

Oliver moaned out a muffled pitch. With the freshly gained insight of the past four days, I knew exactly where and how to touch and to caress. And I threw out all my trepidation on how on earth that I was able to hold that level of clarity when I knew I was in full rut. Secretly though, I so badly wanted him, this-Oliver, to take me and do me raw; make me spent and wide open. But this week wasn’t about me.

“What did I do to deserve you?” I praised into his ear.

Oliver’s lips parted and an audible exhale gaped out. At that moment, it looked like Oliver realized something he didn’t for the past few days: how touch-starved he was. His expression gave off a mixture of emotions, an air of his rational brain processing something.

“It has only been you,” Oliver whispered, “only. you.”

I gasped.

“All these years… .”

Then, it hit me. Oliver’s bite yesterday that didn’t hurt, after its initial skin break. The graze of his finger nails. And lines after lines of abrasions in varying degrees, since the day one of his heat, all over my body, visible. And yet, I was not feeling anything noticeably painful. Everything made perfect sense.

How blind I have been.

Then, I remembered. Oliver turned prominently pliant, after that midnight. Him pressing his palm on my tummy while I was sitting on the stall, asking me not to flush. His hesitation on our way to meet his publisher, to that dinner-ask party, and him glued to me and hovering around the whole night, even when I puked at the talking statue. Even that cold-cold night he refused to climb under the sheet, he did come visit that holiday. When Oliver told me his late spouse, Nicole, was not interested in him that way.

I finally, finally understood: Oliver imprinted, on me. Without knowing or realizing that he did.

Oliver dropped his head forward, exposing more of the back of his neck. I layered my trailing fingers along his lithe motion. A beautiful display of vulnerability. I repaid with an appreciative hold like strokes. Oliver’s chin rotates a little, his eyelids slowly closing shut, anguished sigh trailing through his nose. He quivered again beneath my insistently wandering hands. I began increasing the pressure against Oliver’s spine, pouring my adoration and my worship of being a blessed celebrant. I kissed and kissed every inch of his satin-smooth skin. One slow kiss and a shallow lick after another. As if to tell him;

I see you.

I see you like you want to be seen.  
No pretense, no carefully fashioned façade.  
Just you.  
The one that you decided to become.  
The one that is purely you.  
All and every single part.  
Doesn’t matter the good or the bad, appealing or horrid.  
Just you as you; all of you.

I. See. You.

Like a person looking up at the clear night sky, Oliver opened his eyes and gazed into mine. As if he was admiring and revering the constellation illuminating the unfathomable deep blue-black. Just-Oliver was unquestionably there, with me. The look on his eyes were… breath-taking. Even on the cloudy day, like a true seeker who’ve never forgotten to look up still at the heavenly lights that traveled millions and millions of miles, knowing they are always there — and will forever be. Never ceased to decant the same veneration if not deeper, subconsciously knowing and determinedly recognizing that it is just the limited human naked eyes that is preventing him from seeing through those precipitation, hung heavily between the willing beholder and the ever present stars.

I pushed in my fingers effortlessly into his sizzling body and a shiver of ragged laugh passed through the entire ensemble of Oliver. My Oliver. And I clung to him. Desperately.

*

**Six Days Later, Present Day | Elio’s Condo | 3rd person POV | Part Two**

“What do you remember?” Elio asks tenderly.

“Bits and pieces,” answers Oliver, burying his cheek on Elio’s curls, and shimmies and nuzzles a little to make himself cozy and comfortable.

Oliver tells him what he remembers. It is more in terms of the feelings and emotion than of recollection of facts and events. Elio patiently listens to him. When Oliver says that he thinks he can recall Elio reading him something. A poem or a short story. But Oliver quickly retracts what he just uttered and says that he must have dreamt about it.

Elio smiles, sending his cheek muscle towards his brilliantly chiseled cheek bones, “no, you weren’t dreaming that.”

The chocolate curl tells him that Oliver became listless and the poem seemed to work. Oliver’s heart swells with gratitude, of Elio's care and effort. Though the blond feels that he is being too sentimental, even greedy, he blinks a couple of times, his ears filled with strong thumps of Elio’s heart. In a quiet voice, Oliver asks:

“Can I hear it again?”

_I like for you to be still_  
_It is as though you are absent_  
_And you hear me from far away_  
_And my voice does not touch you_  
_It seems as though your eyes had flown away_  
_And it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth_  
_As all things are filled with my soul_  
_You emerge from the things_  
_Filled with my soul_  
_You are like my soul_  
_A butterfly of dream_  
_And you are like the word: Melancholy_  
_I like for you to be still_  
_And you seem far away_  
_It sounds as though you are lamenting_  
_A butterfly cooing like a dove_  
_And you hear me from far away_  
_And my voice does not reach you_  
_Let me come to be still in your silence_  
_And let me talk to you with your silence_  
_That is bright as a lamp_  
_Simple, as a ring_  
_You are like the night_  
_With its stillness and constellations_  
_Your silence is that of a star_  
_As remote and candid_

_I like for you to be still_  
_It is as though you are absent_  
_Distant and full of sorrow_  
_So you would've died_  
_One word then, One smile is enough_  
_And I'm happy;_  
_Happy that it's not true_

.

\------------------------------------------

[ Chapter Ten Deleted Scene ]

**Six Days Later, Present Day | Elio’s Condo | 3rd person POV | Part Three**

Oliver wants to fall asleep again with Elio’s soothing voice filled with affection and adoration. He rubs at the bottom of shirt sleeve with his fingertips, “you still have this…”

Elio hums, “it stops smelling like you long time ago but I think you could remedy that.”

He then asks whether Oliver’d want to take a shower together. A thing that they never did. Oliver blinks a couple of times before agreeing with a nod. Oliver rustles close and presses his lips against Elio’s temple, as if he’s saying, in a minute.

“What else did we talk about?” Oliver asks, after a few more moments of comfortable silence.

“About Mini, mostly.”

“What did I say?”

“How you found out you were with a child and how long it took. That Mini was three-weeks overdue. You said something about alpha dictating their terms before even born.”

“Oh, god––”

Elio lightly chuckles, kissing Oliver right under his jaw, “you were so easy. Heat haze made you drop all your well-constructed ‘me-so-proper-and-serious,’ down. Ow, ow, okay, okay. You told me why Ellis’ pet name is Mini.”

Oliver lets out a long quiet sigh: the happy kind. Maybe he is glad that a topic such as that is out in the open. Because he has been wracking his brain how he should tell Elio about Ellis after hurling the sentence over the phone. That slushy rainy day. The day three decided to meet for Elio’s birthday.

“It was Nicole who called it, though doctors said that I was built for natural birth. But she put her foot down for c-section. When I first held Ellis, she had her eyes open with a headful of hair. Your eyes, your locks.”

“Mini-me,” Elio snorts, with a wide grin, “a bit too oldie as a pop-culture reference, don’t you think? Ow, ow, ow, ok, ok, I’ll stop.”

*

Being on the other side of the heat, completely sated, Oliver finds himself feeling something familiar. A mixture of similar emotions he had, back in that hotel balcony. They goofed around like two teenagers, despite the stifling heat. Buck-naked and windows wide open for anyone to see, even a shy-seventeen-Elio didn’t mind.

Elio-now, eight years later, seems to remember those days as well. The temperature of the streaming water is quite warm. They wrestle who gets to lather who first. Mafalda’s soap escapes Oliver’s grip. Elio’s lax jaw makes the shower water to fill his open mouth. Oliver says something smart picking up dinged-on-the-side soap bar. “Don’t worry, Mafalda will make hundreds more. You know how much she loves you,” is what Elio quips back. By the usual standards given to us by the society, Oliver wants to say he is too old for these shenanigans. Yet, Oliver loves it. Soon, the two end up in each other’s embrace, Elio rinsing Oliver's hair while the blond kisses the hazel eye's neck. When Elio is done, he gives the blue eyes a playful peck on the lips before circling around to get himself rinsed off.

Elio updates Oliver of how Mini has been doing. He hands the blond his foldable unit. There’s a video recording of Elio and Mini video chat. Oliver glances up at Elio’s back. Elio is making some scrambled eggs. The omega debates for a second. The recording is dated a couple of weeks back; before Mini’s little fiasco. With another glance, to make sure Elio isn’t aware of what Oliver is about to do, the blond presses play.

In the recording, mini was showing him the notes she learned to play on the piano, drawings, etc.

/ “Elio?” /

/ “ _hmm?_ ” / answers Elio’s voice in the smaller screen in the corner.

/ “Can you keep a secret?” / Mini asks, in a hushed voice.

/ “ _What is it?_ ” / Elio indulges her in the same manner.

/ “One second,” / then there is a ruffling sound. Mini appears to be moving to somewhere for some privacy.

/ “ _Mini?_ ” / Elio is the little screen calls out to her, a little concerned.

More static sound and distorted image continue.

/ “Elio?” /

/ “ _I’m still here_.” /

/ “It’s a secret. Don’t tell mom.” /

/ “ _Okay_.” /

/ “Promise?”/

/ “( _cross my heart_ ).” /

At his Italian, Mini smiles. Then her face turns straight. Oliver huffs quietly, noticing his daughter’s ‘me-very-serious’ face. Elio in the smaller screen is waiting quietly and patiently. Mini swallows with a determined expression and says,

/ “I want you to be my papa.” /

Mini then launches into her logic to him, listing the reasons why; that people told her how much she looks like him, that how much she loves watching Elio playing the piano for her and teaching her how to play the keys, that how much she likes seeing Oliver happy whenever they are together.

/ “Mama sounds like Custard when he’s thinking about you.” /

Although she may not know much about omegan’s involuntary purr, she definitely noticed the sound. Oliver ducks his head a little. Maybe blushing a bit.

“Whooooa––, you’re not supposed to…,” and before Oliver can do anything, Elio takes his foldable unit from the blue eyes’ grasp.

Oliver protestes but Elio tucks it away in one of his drawers.

“More coffee?” asks the alpha, as if what just happened didn’t happen.

Oliver waves his hand just above his cup, “don’t try to change the subject.”

“Well, I promised her that I’d keep her secret so,” he walks across the kitchen and pulls out a giant glass pitcher. Oliver quips about how on earth Elio not forget his phone if he tosses it in the kitchen drawer.

“Not gonna work,” Elio retorts back, then he fills a tall glass with its content.

“Oh, god… is that?” Oliver visibly gasps.

“mm hm,” answers Elio with a wide smile, extending his arm towards Oliver, “I know it’s not Mafalda’s but I saw some fresh ones from the co-op store the other day…”

Oliver takes the glass that is filled to the rim with thick apricot juice, pauses for a moment or two, and brings the glass to his lips. A scene from that summer, in papa’s study, Elio so vividly remembers is being played in front of him, just as he relived it in his dreams. Oliver downs the juice one gulp at a time without a break, tilting his head as he tilted the glass up. Then, just as Elio has been hoping to see, Oliver smacks his lips. Then, the blond pulls in both of his lips and licks the remaining juice from his lips. Elio softly closed lips turns into a wide smile. What follows next is something Elio couldn’t foresee. Oliver is having a moment with now an empty tall glass, a swivel of his wrist in mid-air. Then, another smack of his lips.

Elio standing with the pitcher still in his hand and asks, “and?”

“Grazie–”

“Yes!!!!” Elio pumps his fist in the mid-air and does some brief victory dance moves. And he reigns in his excitement with a rather smug but calm straight face, “want some more?” in a proper and moderate tone.

Oliver chuffs with a full smile and replies, “yes, please.”

Indistinct conversation continues as two enjoy their breakfast together. The conversation like “I almost flayed my finger while pitting the seeds,” “oh, no, you don’t,” Elio stopping Oliver from fishing out his phone from the drawer.

Once the dishes done, Elio detects Oliver’s post-heat insecurity kicking in. So Elio voluntarily provides Oliver being asleep majority of the last two days was how he was able to go out and get some fresh fruits himself. The alpha then asks whether Oliver’d like for them to have Mini over this evening. To Elio’s surprise, Oliver says he wanted to spend his lucid post-heat with Elio.

“I’m a bad parent, aren’t I…,” Oliver says with a little frown.

Elio just shakes his head and lays a kiss on Oliver’s temple.

*

Upon Oliver’s request, Elio is in front of the keys and plays some soothing classics.

“1915,” Elio tips his chin to the upright piano, noticing Oliver is looking at the upright piano as he plays _Clair de Lune_.

“It was given to me by one of my late mentors,” adds Elio. Then, Elio’s face changes with a giddiness Oliver has been substituting with Mini’s blooms, as he continues, “it is super tuned,” while not forgetting to grumble about it costing him a fortune to get it shipped over here the second time.

“It’s probably the most expensive thing I own,” Elio chuckles.

Then, the alpha goes on and says the grand piano is sponsored, as the tune progresses to: _The Man I Love_.

“These are usually upwards of 100K,” adds Elio.

“I bet.”

A comfortable silence fall between them. Gershwin's composition played by Elio's hands is different from that of the Ella Fitzgerald's.

“Elio–,” calls Oliver.

“mmhm~~?”

“How come I don’t have–,” the blond trails off.

“I wasn’t going to bond with you during your haze,” say Elio, knowing exactly what Oliver is asking about, nonchalantly, “I wanted your complete lucid consent. Hence, no bite marks.”

An unusual alpha to an unusual omega. And just like that summer, they are back on being able to read and understand each other.

“Did I––?”

“Yes,” answered Elio without missing a beat, “you didn’t see it while we were in the shower?”

As if to prove their non-verbal connection, the familiar melody follows.

“Oh––,” Oliver leans back a little in mid-air with a sigh-ask exclaim. Elio simply chuckles. It’s Bach.

“You literally flirted with me with that,” says Oliver tossing one of sofa cushion.

Elio’s eyebrows shot up with a mischievous ‘I don’t know what you mean’ expression. This time the alpha keeps it as Bach wrote it, no Liszt, no Busoni. He watches Oliver the whole time, as he is able to play it without looking at the keys.

A short blissful moments, juxtaposed with the image of sitting room all those years ago, Elio lets the last notes resonate through. Oliver opens his eyes and their gaze meet.

“Thought you wouldn’t notice,” Elio counters fondly, with a satisfied quirk on his lips.

“You know..., I tried to find it on YouTube but it wasn’t the same.”

“Same?”

“Even the oldest one recorded had the pianist’s interpretation.”

“ah––.”

“I cursed and regretted not recording while I was there.”

“I have a session coming up for a new product launch. Would you like me to–.”

“Yes, of fucking course!”

\------------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –Pablo Neruda, _I Like For You To Be Still_  
> .  
> Thank you for reading, your time and interest.  
> 


	12. Epilogue. Pinch Me, so I’d Know it’s Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in a life of ElliOllie and the story of Oliver’s mating bite mark. It takes place on an early evening before Elio’s big concert night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *warning* mating bite in A/B/O verse inevitably involves the mention of blood. Do please kindly proceed with caution if this is a trigger for you  
> .  
> 

**Epilogue. Pinch Me, so I’d Know it’s Real**

**Early Evening, Early Next Summer | New York | Elio’s Condo | 3rd person POV**

Elio walks out from the bathroom, swinging the bath towel around his waist, care-free, tucking one corner, loosely fastening it, the end of his freshly washed dark curls forming a drop, here: near his cheek, there: on the back of his neck.

Unlike his 17 year old self, Elio filled in quite nicely, his alpha hormones hard at work. Broader shoulder, lean cuts on every large muscle, close resemblance to the featherweight martial arts fighter. Slender-cut-and-lean ectomorph. He might have grown an inch or two as male alphas continue to grow until their mid-twenties.

After a couple of steps to the walk-in closet, he simply stands in front of two long garment bags. With a short pause, he reaches up and quietly unzips each. He studies two lovely suits, putting his hand on his waist. Then Elio tosses his head back lightly, bringing Star of David between his lips.

It used to be Oliver’s. After they bonded, two swapped their Star of David, with an upgrade. Each engraved with their respectable names. It was Oliver’s idea. This evening is the first U.S. solo stage for Elio Perlman. Well, technically, Elio turned it into a benefit slash festival. Instead of having professional orchestra, he invited the young talents of NYU School of Arts graduating class. All. Of. Them. They practiced like crazy for past four weeks. With Caroline’s vetting which helped pushing the “proper” authorities to go with Elio’s plan, Paton is DPing the whole event.

A muffled footsteps pads closer to the walk-in closet.

Oliver is wearing a white dress shirt with thin skyblue strips, the collar expertly pressed, crisp lines running his “manly” torso. He walks in, fastening his sleeves with cufflinks that used to belong to Pr. Perlman, his shirt three top buttons open, not looking up. Elio catches a glint of his, now Oliver’s, Star of David peeking out between the open collar. Alpha grazes his eyes down below Oliver’s torso. Oliver’s dress shirt is neatly held with shirt garters, wrapped itself around the omega’s long lean cut thighs, which set just below the tight black boxer shorts. Elio lets out a long groan.

That is the moment Oliver looks up with nonchalant ‘hmm?’ expression on his clean shaven face. Now the blond is buttoning up the rest, Star of David nestling behind. Elio steps close to Oliver, tilting his head back, his damp curls brushing his forehead, looking up at the blue eyes. Oliver quietly scoffs. Elio looks so sinfully aroused.

“You didn’t even dry yet,” Oliver points out.

“You smell so good,” says Elio tugging in Oliver, pulling him down just a little, to get his lips close to the blond.

“No, no, no, we’re gonna be late.”

“We just won’t socialize before the opening, then.”

“Elio––,” trying to untangle himself from Elio’s possessive hands, in hushed tone, feeling the excitement pooling down low, “I didn’t bring any spare,” meaning Oliver’s dress shirt.

“Then, hurry the fuck up and get out of this before I rip it away from you.”

A low groan comes out first before, “Elio––,” as Oliver exhales out his alpha's name, giving into Elio peppering quick kisses, “we are too old for this.”

“You, yes!! But not me. I haven’t even hit my prime yet,” retorts snarkly as he gets even close, lightly biting Oliver’s lower lip.

“Brat.”

“Don’t know what you mean,” says Elio putting his hand under Oliver’s shirt.

Oliver walks backwards until the back of his leg touched the bed, Elio climbing up on Oliver with a wide grin on his face, taking Omega’s shirt off over the shoulder, running his long fingers inside and under Oliver’s tight boxer. Oliver groans out a moan.

“Admiring the view?” says Elio rips the Velcro of Oliver’s shirt garter, in two separate quick swipes.

Left one, then right.

“Very much,” low throaty answer. Now his semi-crumpled shirt is free, Elio twists his upper body a bit to hang, still-warm-from-the-blue-eyes-body-heat, shirt on the back of a lounge chair.

Oliver leaning back, his upper body supported by his arms on the bed, Elio readjusts his straddling thighs. Two looks at each other. Oliver opens his mouth to say something, Elio interrupts.

“Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me–.”

Oliver looks up at Elio’s hazel eyes, his maroon ring threading deep into his spectacular hazel iris, pupils widening as Oliver got close.

“nuh–, uh–, no touching until you give me a proper kiss,” says Elio swatting Oliver’s hands coming up on his flank.

As Oliver brings his lips close to Elio’s, the dark curls brushes on Oliver’s forehead. A single drop that has been dangling on Elio’s curls makes a lazy transition and lands on Oliver’s cheek. Elio rolls his hips, rubbing his erection on Oliver’s, just as hard, bulging boxer.

“mh, hm, no touching,” Elio mumbles the words as he rolled his tongue and licks inside Oliver’s upper teeth.

A low growl.

“Oliver, Oliver, Oliver.”

The maroon rings glint in Elio’s iris.

*

Slapping sound and low rumbles and feverish moans are bouncing off the four walls of the bedroom as the thick scent cocktail of spearmint, muskmelon, and unpopped popcorn nuttiness fill the air. Oliver knows why Elio is uncharacteristically being like this, only hours before his big event. The one that Elio put all; lots of work, time and effort. Even Mini pouted about not being able to see her new-favorite alpha in her entire life during the prep.

Anxiety.

Because tonight is going to be the first time ever that Elio Perlman is officially accompanied by his _omega_. It’s a happy and ‘once in a life time’ celebratory occasion for both Elio and Oliver, as a couple. A lot of people will be there, including the high society and the State officials. _His_ omega will be swarmed by OTHER people. There will be lots of handshakes, socially chummy-chummy touching on Oliver’s shoulder, his upper arms, his elbows. The very core of Elio's anxiety is rooted not just on "meeting" undesignated huddled mass of people but on more primal reason. It is long been customarily frowned upon to wear scent marks even between the married pair.

Elio shakes at the thought. His grip on Oliver’s pelvic bone tightens and he speeds up, make Oliver let out a hard salutary grunt. Elio Perlman is undoubtedly giving into his Alpha nature. He’s mine, all mine, and mine-alone. The alpha repeats in his head, hitting the omega’s prostate every single thrust, as Oliver arches his back up towards Elio to take all of the alpha’s length at each and every smooth plunge.

Hot breaths, their ritual phrase recited into Oliver’s ear, in a brutal, punishing speed. A full contact sweep of Elio’s tongue on the blue eyes’ shoulder, next to the bond mark, now set permanently, with a small tattoo, written in italic: _parce que c’était lui, parce que c’était moi_.

Elio’s pupils change and his lips twitch up in a way that can only be interpreted as an inexplicable turn-on. Each time Elio sees this vivid intentionally scared mark of his teeth impression on Oliver, _his omega_ , the alpha cannot hold himself back. It was a couple of weeks after their first heat together.

._._._.  
Whether you decide to recognize or not, one thing has more-than-likely for certain, even in the age of climate crisis. That _Nature_ has its own way of letting us know the time has passed. Regardless of you are cognizant of it, we all somehow catch up to the fact a season has changed. Last winter, two separate winter storms reigned over the tri-state area. Of which Elio took every moment of it to his advantage. Mini loved it. Piles and piles of snow that she was able to build a snow castle with tiny snowman soldiers (not to mention snow angels) during a bit more no-school days. She probably would insist that she had most fun, especially when there was no power. Treacherous winter weather inevitably brought higher-than-usual-number of nights with power outage. The candle lights and LED camping lanterns were lit throughout the house. For Mini, it was such a magical moment. Elio reading books to her, making shadow puppets, and building a pillow fort with all the cushions and pillows they had.

A day after one of those severe winter night, Elio became a tad impatient when Oliver took a bit of moment when Elio implied about them moving in together. “Or I can move in with you, here,” Elio quickly added. Oliver just looked up at him at the kitchen table as Mini asked, “what does it mean?” Two adults spent the next thirty minutes to have their daughter understand the concept. Neither of them succeeded.

“Oh, then are you marrying Mama?” she asked, her giant hazel eyes looking so innocent and happy.

The expression that dawn on Oliver was priceless, Elio thought. Thankfully, her enthusiasm and endless ‘why?’ were distracted by one of her favorite program. Once they put her to bed and kissed her good-night, Oliver just sat on the bed, with his back on the headboard, reading. Elio settled himself on his side of their bed with his arm bent and tucked behind his head. Elio sensed some discomfort hanging over Oliver’ head. Like a little grey cloud just for Oliver. Elio puffed at how pensive his omega looked. I know you, Elio thought, even when you are not talking.

“Relax, I’m not complaining about me having to have a go-bag all the time,” Elio began, “I’m used to it actually.”

And the alpha continued on about the reason why he had grown to _not_ mind living out of a suitcase, telling Oliver of his days as young nobody concert pianist in Europe. Then he carried on about him having two pianos and how much pain-in-the-ass it would be, in hopes of buttressing his suggestion about Oliver and Mini moving in to his condo. Along with, and not forgetting to emphasize, the fact that his place is bigger than Oliver’s. There was no answer. Elio just gazed up at him. With a semi-forced wide grin to tell Oliver ‘never mind,’ in the hazel eyes’ trade mark nonchalance, Elio was lying. And Elio was aware that Oliver knew the alpha was lying. The blond soundlessly brought up his hand and began threading his fingers into Elio’s wayward curls.

Oliver filled his lungs in a measured speed and closed his book, shifting a little, while rubbing his palm slowly. Elio blinked, _oh boy... ._

“Elio,” the blond began, quietly.

Elio just hummed in a light mood, keeping his casualness.

“The market is not really good. And trust me when I say, I am the first one to tell you that I want us to be together. We both know it is better for Mini…,” the omega clears his throat, “Ellis to uh…, not just adjusting to new living arrangements before her next year and–.”

Without dislodging his arm from the back of his head, Elio rolled to his side, facing Oliver.

“but–?” said the hazel eyes.

Oliver’s chin turned towards Elio’s direction and simply stated, “there is no but.”

The alpha’s eyebrows shot up with an expression of ‘and~~.’

Oliver huffed lightly with a soft grin, “I want us to get a house for us. But for now, I’ll clear my closet so you can have yours over.”

Elio’s head did this odd pull-back with his head, taken a back.

“… what’s wrong? Have I said something–?”

The chocolate curls propped his torso on his bent elbow, while Oliver pulled his legs close, bending at the knees. Oliver had this look of befuddlement.

“You already cleared out your closet, didn’t you?” tossed the alpha, “yes, you did, you _DID_!! was that the reason you wanted to come over?” and he studied Oliver’s reaction and quickly continued, his tone filled with excitement, “uh-huh, yes it was! You wanted to tell me first! Ah-ha!”

Oliver put up his fingers in front of Elio’s wide smile as if to say, keep your voice down you might wake up Mini. But Elio was already finding his way, crawling over Oliver. The alpha with the most jubilant smile straddled his mate.

“When were you going to tell me, professor, mhm?”

Oliver’s chin tilted up, as Elio settled himself on Oliver’s lap, “I just did.”

The alpha muttered something in Italian and Oliver just shook his head in disbelief.

“This calls for a celebration,” said the hazel eyes, taking hold of Oliver’s face.

The blue eyes’ large hands, too, responded in kind; one hand at each side of Elio’s taut yet slender waist. Two held each other’s gaze. The look of admiration, the look of love, the look of desire. And, not so surprisingly, low yet unmistakable purr resonated between and around them.

“We never need a reason for sex,” Oliver began quietly, “you know that.”

Elio just hummed like a mixture of exclamation point and period. As Oliver’s lean torso expanded, the alpha tilted his head and began kissing the blond’s lips. Never hurried but languid yet with depthless possessiveness.

Like that first night, Oliver’s large hand found their way toward Elio’s back, his whole two hands making full contact on Elio’s skin. His fingertips, the light hollow dip in the middle of his palms, and the lean-yet-sturdy mound of his heels just before the wrists. It drew a low and long hot breath out of Elio. Oliver’s face right under the dark curl’s chin, Elio began to rock his pelvis over already hard base of Oliver. In just the right pace.

Oliver gritted his teeth before he said, “off, off, off,” and pawed at Elio’s top.

Who knew they were going to re-live their night?

As Elio pulled his shirt up-and-over his head, Oliver freed his upper body as well. Soon, Oliver was on his back, his lips on Elio, with his hands helping his alpha to get out of his pj bottom. Elio’s fully upright erection bobbed as he repositioned himself after fishing out his ankles from the fleeced garment. The hazel eyes leaned down forward, almost hurling his body over Oliver’s, and kissed his neck just the way the blue eyes enjoy it.

“God––, you smell amazing,” Elio said rapturously, as his fingers explored around Oliver’s ring muscle. His omega was thoroughly slicked.

Oliver shuddered. _I know what that means_ , Elio said to himself and he swiftly placed himself between the blond’s legs. No words but breathlessness filled between them. Once the alpha aligned himself, Oliver just nodded, swallowing hard. In an one-swipe motion, Elio’s engorged erection made a full entry. A gasp escaped out of the omega.

“Elio–, Elio–, Elio–,” repeated the hazel eyes, as the blue eyes transparent pink full erection bobbed against their abdomens. The low lustrous moan in short beat echoed.

Large sweat beads forming, Elio’s back glistening, Oliver was peaking so nicely. And both knew they were surely and totally in sync. Then, something the alpha never expected happened. He doesn’t understand to this day how he knew it without Oliver uttering a single word, but Elio was dead sure of what Oliver was asking. His iris fully blown with the golden ring threaded completely, his omega was asking him to bite.

“But, but–,” Elio stammered, his thrusts pacing down a little.

_Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,_  
_Old Time is still a-flying:_  
_And this same flower that smiles today_  
_To-morrow will be dying_

“Don’t stop,” Oliver’s splayed fingertips dug in a little over Elio’s muscle, “I want you to.”

Mating bite, in its essence, is only meant to occur during heat-rut cycle. Without the help of heat hormone, any bite from an alpha is painful. Their fangs, canines, contain chemical to ensure scaring (basically, they are designed to sizzle and burn).

Oliver didn’t falter, looking up at him with the plea, Elio knew he was dead serious. And quite frankly, it took him an enormous mental strength _not_ to bite Oliver during their first heat. And the alpha didn’t think his heart could go any faster but it did. This time with immeasurable pride of victory, as if he just conquered the world, his chest swelled. So so much.

_Then be not coy, but use your time,_  
_And while ye may, go marry:_  
_For having lost but once your prime,_  
_You may for ever tarry._

With a satisfied grin, Elio finally conceded with a light nod, as he mouthed soundlessly, ‘okay.’

Oliver, in turn, whispered a brief yet enabling, “do it!”

Elio hurtled forward like a scene from a vampire movie and bit down on Oliver's flesh.  
._._._.

_parce que c’était lui, parce que c’était moi_

Memory is an incredible thing. Laced with emotion that can never be replicated by any other event, Elio still remembers how Oliver’s blood tasted in his tongue. His nostrils fully encaptured with Oliver’s scent, it was something the alpha can never forget. Because it was he, Because it was me.

With nibbling kisses on those letters, Elio peaks. A muffled grunt. And the omega takes every single drop of Elio’s spill. Synchronized cycles of breath, they clasp together on the bed: Oliver's sweaty flank on the sheets, Elio's sweat-dripping front on Oliver’s broad back. Always and forever. Elio bucks his hips once then one more as if to make a point.

To Elio’s surprise, Oliver pushes, between catching his breath, almost like the under-the-table shove, and hands something on Elio’s gently clasped palm, the one just momentarily left the blond’s hip to wipe the sweat, running down from the dark curls.

A satisfactory grin comes on Elio’s face immediately: it’s one of their favorite plugs.

No, every cell of their body is now fully reacquainted and molded themselves to each other’s and don’t necessarily need prepping for their animalistically passionate encounters.

This, this very object in the alpha’s hand means that the professor, ‘always-so-prim-and-proper’ Oliver, is going to smell like Elio. It’s going to be subtle but Elio’s cum in Oliver’s body will––

Elio shudders with warm satisfaction. He fights the itch on his canines. In a large crowd, Oliver is going to show he has been claimed. The scent will say, do think twice before you even dare touching what is mine.

Carefully pushing it inside, Elio turns Oliver over gently to sit up face-to-face, then straddles him. A rumbling moan, Oliver nuzzles his nose on Elio’s flushed cheek and whispers, “now, always, and forever.”

Oliver’s large hands gently cups Elio’s face, lacing into his still damp unruly curls. Both grin, holding each other’s gaze, eyes glinting, smile lines form into beautiful curvatures.

After their languid long kiss, Oliver traces both thumb on Elio’s jaw down the magnificent neck line. He then gently presses his thumb pads up on each of scenting points, right under Elio’s ear lobe.

A fresh thick spearmint scent.

Then, Oliver lets go of Elio, one hand at a time, perfectly still, forever holding the gaze. The blond brings his left thumb to his right pulse point under his jaw, his right thumb to his left.

Elio takes in an audible breath.

Oliver simply smiles.

| | | FIN | | |

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –Rober Herrick, _Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May_  
>  [ a question ] would you like _that_ chapter of deleted scenes? (I know I had it on the original version, as I was aware that I mercilessly chump-chumped the chapters back way back when. yes... I was that nervous, it's true; even if you don't believe me. But… if you still like to read some of the scenes that I cut out, do let me know.)  
> .  
> Thank you for reading, your time and interst.  
> Au revoir––, for now. :)


	13. Extra Sum'n Sum'n

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a made-up version of Blu-ray special feature of _And So..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> each segment(scene) is independent. [ Translation ] they are not a linked one story.  
> .  
> 

**Extra Sum'n Sum'n**

**[ Alternate Ending ]**

“Marry me.”

Oliver’s pauses abruptly right in the midst of walking with Elio’ fingers laced in his hand, “…what?”

Six more blissfully sated heats later and Mini being accepted to performing arts school, Oliver and Elio have a decision to make. Elio–now 28, a burgeoning international concert pianist who was just offered a board approved tenure in NYU–is the one brings up the subject. Looking up at the omega with his nonchalance, the hazel eyes appears to be unaffected by the look on Oliver’s face.

“Come on–, you goof, what is there to think about?”

Elio’s logic is iron clad. If Oliver has to move close to Mini’s new school, for her to commute easily, merging house, a subject the two have been dancing around, isn’t really a bad idea. Although Elio’s belongings are now half of Oliver’s closet while Mini has her own room in Elio’s condo, the alpha feels most strongly that this is the most opportune time.

Oliver has the look of mulling over several things. Elio lightly fiddles Oliver’ hand in his grip. Whilst not forgetting to toss the fact that Oliver can finally have his own nest. It’s type of pillow fort slash nursing room within a home or only for omega-of-the-house safe hideaway not just for pre- or post-heat. In short, it’s ultimately omega’s version of the colloquial man(woman)-cave, of which historical texts trace its existence all the back to Bronze Age. Without letting Elio know, the professor has been web-search-shopping for an ideal place for all three of them. The chocolate curls’ mention of his mate having his own nesr, at the same time, undoubtedly signals Elio’s desire of something more than just the logistical arrangement. The alpha groans, though still smiling,

“(Auurgghhh––, stop thinking for once, would yeah?)” says Elio, stepping in front of the blue eyes, “(marry me and be my forever), Oliver.”

You just rhymed, Oliver wants to say. Instead Oliver simply manages to stammer, “but… Ellis and… your career and… .”

Always thinking about the reality. A handsome bachelor alpha with his career on its incline to a global recognition and fame who all of a sudden decides to saddle up with an older Omega with a teenager? What about the public image? Did he talk to Karim?

“All the more reason, my beautiful alpha girl with a gorgeous you.”

The way Elio says the whole slew of process for them to be legally together will be in a snap of finger makes Oliver huff out an exhale under breath. Yet it doesn’t seem to matter to Elio; he goes on and knocks out all the doubts and hesitation in Oliver’s head. Oh, yes, the mental acrobatics that Oliver thought Elio wouldn’t notice. The omega is holding his alpha’s determined look.

“Whatever it takes. DNA test, statements, documents, court hearings, legal addendums and all that,” Elio lists the things that are required for him to declare and prove he indeed is the alpha of Oliver and the father of Mini. So you have been looking into this, thinks Oliver.

Oliver parts his mouth, shaking his head a little, though he looks so happy and worried at the same time, “…but.”

Elio dumps out his chest with a quirky smile before he kneels down in front him. Oliver’s eyes blinks. Elio digs out a neatly folded silk fabric and places it on his palm and peeled the corners. On top of the glistening cloth is two simple bands with the engraving. _Cor Cordium_.

“I was going to do it tonight at the restaurant but…,” Elio takes a second to settle himself, “so, Oliver, would you spend the rest of your life with me?”

Passers-by begins to smile and spectate the two. Oliver’s face is blank with shock: the good kind. Elio’s eyebrows make an inquisitive yet nervous look, with an anticipation bubbling over.

Oliver says something but the word doesn’t come out properly the first time. He clears his throat, and tries again, “yes,” he pauses briefly, “yes, you goose, let’s get married,” and mutters something really close to, ‘get the hell up’ in Italian.

Elio surges forward and hugs him in and peppers his lips over every corner of Oliver’s head before he ends with a possessive kiss on Oliver’s lips. Two share long and happy kiss.

“Oh, fuck. Here,” says Elio, breaking off from their blissful kiss. Still holding Oliver left hand, the alpha slides the ring on his finger. And he pauses with a content sigh, “a perfect fit,” and Elio’s gaze find their way back up with a pride and joy Oliver never seen before. At that, the blond beams.

“We’ll have to remedy the blank years and fill our house with our children.”

“Children?” Oliver can’t believe what he just heard, pausing in the middle of placing the other ring on Elio’s fourth finger, on the right side.

“Yes,” Elio says with his typical mischievous tone, “give me a little one just like you. I don’t care what gender they are. Let’s have at least three more.”

“you alphas,” Oliver shakes his head, “the very first thing comes to mind after a marriage proposal is knocking their omega up,” and does a playful jab on Elio's side, “you’re fucking crazy.”

“Oh, hell, yeah!, deliriously for you!” and Elio belts out an exclaim.

***

That was eight years ago.

Twenty years was yesterday, and yesterday was just earlier this morning, and morning seemed light years away. Nine months after the close friends and family ceremony, Oliver gave Elio an omega son, Olive, via NBAC (natural birth after c-section). Unlike Ellie, the pregnancy was smoother.

Well, being a second pregnancy, Oliver knowing what to expect had something to do with it, he thought. Of course, having an alpha like Elio, Oliver was more stable and content as ever.

Ellie decided to opt out the grade advancement. She felt that getting into a year late to the school system was no shame, contrary to popular belief. Instead, she considered it as a period of proper send-off of her adopted parent, Nic. She named her MIDI-device after her, though her classmates teased her ‘corny’ and ‘ancient.’ No, she hasn’t decided what she wants to become. As Samuel and Annella did, Oliver and Elio trusted her to find her own way. They were just there to aid and be a paddle (a little hoist-up) if she’d ever need them.

Elio and Oliver are lying, entwined in each other’s arms, diagonally on their pushed together two extended-twin beds. It was something Oliver insisted. Although he said, it’s easier to launder sheets. But Elio knew it was homage to their first summer together.

Coming Thursday, Oliver will be leaving to Athens, Greece to join with Bethany Hughes and Marie Barde on the joint excavation of newly found archeological site. Elio said that he’s super-stoked that he’d be spending hot summer with Oliver where he can see Oliver’s magnificent blue eyes being reflected in the ocean. Mediterranean blue sea.

The electric whirring sound of the engine amplifies through the open window. Air compressor sound of door opening and closing follows after. They hear Mini say goodbyes to her friends. There is a metal clack at the front door after a sing-songy melody of smart home lock. Moments after, Oliver and Elio hear their daughter from downstairs.

“Mama? Papa? Are you guys home?”

From the other side of the house below, running footsteps echo.

“Hey~, Olive! How was school? How did your presentation go?” says Mini but two don’t hear the other voice and just as quickly, “Olivier Samuel Joshua Finnegan Perlman! Papa let you play the games, didn’t he? What did Mama say about all plays?”

“I was bored waiting for you to come home,” says Olive. Elio huffs knowing how their son’s face would look like in front of their late teenage alpha daughter.

Oliver and Elio scoot over to the center of the bed as the muffled thumps rebound closer upstairs. The bedroom door opens. Two children come over and give a peck to their parents before lying down next to them. Mini on Elio’s side. Olive on Oliver’s side. Their younglings take turn of filling their parents in. Olive threads his smaller finger in between the opening of Oliver’s button down shirt.

“I love this, Oliver,” says Elio.

“What? You mean us?” asks Oliver purring, Mini smiling wide, nuzzling her face closer to Elio’s chest.

Elio fills his lung audibly, steady and slow, his palm gently brushing Mini’s hair.

“Everything.”

.

| | | END SEGMENT | | |

\----------------------------------------

**[ Tchaikovsky, Sam, and an Early Evening]; Elio POV_Elio sees himself in a mini-version of his beloved Oliver.**

[ Recommendation before you proceed for this deleted scene ]  
If possible, check out these two: [concerto no.1](https://youtu.be/hNfpMRSCFPE), [concerto no.3](https://youtu.be/HRsN6RwNBZQ), at least the openings (ONLY if you wish, though), before reading this short segment; it’ll make more sense. :) 

I decide to walk home after the class, leaving my bike at the office. This weekend will be great. Memorial day. Oliver, Mini, Olive and I will be taking a little weekend to ourselves in long time. Mini is finally able to take a weekend off: who is now comfortably apprenticing as an assistant music composer for one of the well-known company in New York. It has been a while we’ve seen her though we video-chatted every chance we get.

.

“hey–, hey–, hey–, cucciolo,” I drop everything I had on me in the hallway, reach him as hurriedly as I can and stop those small hands, “(What’s going on?)”

Olive, though he is a spitting image of Oliver, he has a temper only my parents used to describe, with all the tease and love balled in one; when I was his age. I kneel next to the piano bench, running my open palm on his back, gently. Remembering how it soothed him each time Oliver did the same.

Though I haven’t a clue what Oliver whispers to him whenever Olive’d get like this, I do my best to convey how much I love him, regardless of what is going on or whatever is bugging him from inside his head.

Olive dumps out his chest and his shoulders sag. Oh…such defeat.

“Hey…, if you don’t want to talk about it, it’s fine, too. You know that, right?”

Olive darts his eyes over the length of the piano. This time, he sighs out aloud. I do my absolute best to subdue a smile; he is positively adorable.

“May I sit with you?” I ask him softly.

Olive now pushes the back of his torso a little more, pouting. A few moments later, he nods.

I lift myself up from the floor and hook my arm around Olive. With a little half-hearted grunt, I hoist him up. This draws a small giggle out of him when I sat him down as I sit right next to him.

“What are you working on?” I ask cheerfully.

“Tchaikovsky,” he runs his fingertips on the keys, deftly, then quickly pulls away. As if he and the piano have been having an argument, and the piano is quite upset with him.

“Ahhh–––”

I prop my back up straight, do a subtle shimmy with my shoulders before I take in an intentional breath. Then, I hover both my forearms in the mid-air, then with an exaggerated swish of my hair, let my hands land over the wooden keys. Olive finally looks up at me with a full curiosity. Success. I press my fingers down, almost slamming on the keys with an overgenerous motion, lifting my arms back in mid-air between the notes. Olive quickly breaks out into ‘pffttt,’ since my dear son is quite familiar with how I normally play or behave around this beautiful instrument. My unprompted comical gesture helps him begin to feel at ease. And I willingly continue the opening of the Tchaikovsky’s piano concerto no.1. Op. 23.

Having been a concert pianist, I never wish for Olive to walk the same path. But I cannot help but feeling proud of his gift. Maybe it’s because Oliver sat down next to me, around me, whenever I practiced, almost the whole nine months. Maybe Olive just received only the good genes from both of us. Olive’s additions/riffs were not elaborate and as polished, the series of notes fit the original composition quite nicely. Our forearms crisscross without hindering each other. And we play on.

“Bravo–, bravo–,” I say, clapping my hands softly.

“Grazie, papa,” says Olive, still a bit shy on receiving compliments.

I sling my right arm up and over him, cup his right shoulder, and give him a peck on the crown of his head, pulling him close. A whiff of Oliver hits my nose. I smile. Olive ruffles his own hair before he finally says:

“I have to present a piece less than five-minute and my fingers are…”

“Olive, aww–, my precious cucciolo, it’s not your fingers.”

Then, a thought occur to me.

“Have you try it on Sam?” I ask him.

And this time, Olive gives me full eye contact.

“uhm…, Sis said that it is very old and I should respect him.”

“True,” I run my hand on his upper arm, “Sam was a gift from one of my mentors when papa was in college. It was made in 1915.”

“1915?”

“mhm, hm,” I reply, “but, you and your sister can play Sam as much as you want. He is meant to be played, cucciolo.”

“What about the strings….”

“Well, the strings can always be tuned, my son,” I smile at him, “okay–?”

Olive nods slowly but I can feel his tension hasn’t completely dissipated from him.

_Hmmm…_

“You know what my favorite is?”

Olive’s brows rise with an open yet candid interest. Instead of answering, I begin playing the keys.

“Not many people like the third one,” adds Olive, recognizing the piece.

“Well, because it wasn’t finished. So it is not as popular as other ones,” I explain as I carry on playing, “but for me, it gives me the sense of hope that the future is for each of us to write.”

“No ending,” he murmurs quietly.

“That’s right. Unfinished doesn’t mean incomplete in a negative sense but an open ending. A plenty of room for imagination, plight of whims and fancies.”

Olive fills his chest all––– the way up and sighs out contently, through his parted lips.

“Now what about we hop on over to Sam, until Mama comes home, hmm?”

And my dear Olive gives me the most wide-and-broad smile ever.

.

| | | END SEGMENT | | |

\----------------------------------------

**[ 4181 Steps ]; 3rd person POV_Ellis’ stubborn streak and Oliver witnesses how wonderful father Elio is.**

Oliver affectionately yet firmly cups his palm around Elio’s rigid shoulder. Alpha’s gorgeous curls tussled, his maroon rings have already threaded halfway, his jaw is bulging, and his chest is heaving faster than usual. Oliver swallows hard as Elio’s eyes redirect to his, stopping Elio in the midst of charging. He is clearly upset. Oliver takes in a slow breath, holding his gaze. Not as a challenge but to request Elio to take a moment. Elio finally blinks, setting his jaws.

“Before you say anything…,” Oliver merely begins in a calm but doting manner and–

Elio takes in an audible breath and fills his chest. The alpha regards his husband, who is looking at him with the mixture of concern and plea. Then, Elio dips his chin, lightly, “(as you wish.)”

._._._.  
**Few Minutes Ago**

Two are sitting in the holding cell, Ellis’ hands in Oliver’s warm hand. As Ellis is older than 14 but not yet 18, Oliver is allowed inside the cell. No one in the station would dare to argue or press the procedure since i. she is yet to be charged with anything, and ii. she is an alpha youngling with an omega mother. Recently, one of the lower states’ Supreme Court in U.S. has made a ruling reversing the rights of GFA (Gender Freedom Act) that passed more than three decades ago. Ellis, without letting any of her parents know, participated walk-out street protest during a school day and got arrested. Oliver received the call first. The reasons for her arrest and detainment were as follows: ‘unaccompanied underage alpha,’ ‘public disturbance,’ ‘resist of an arrest,’ and ‘non-registered member for peaceful protest.’ As soon as he heard the part where Ellis is uninjured, Oliver sighed. Then the police explained that, technically, they followed the protocol and left the message at Elio’s office, as he was unavailable to take a call himself.  
._._._.

Ellis explains what happened and that her friend kept the video of the whole charade. She says how sorry she was of making her mom worry. Oliver understands that having lost Nic in a similar situation, he could easily picture how the insipid event sparked like a faulty trigger for Ellis and got herself into a brawl. She asks about Olive. Oliver tells her that the sitter agreed to stay with him a couple of hours longer. Ellis apologizes again.

“Ellie-baby…”

As if on cue, there is a blindingly loud buzz and her grip on Oliver’s hand tightens. He can only offer a comforting smile. She is visibly trembling. Two police officers come and open the cell door. Still holding her hand, Oliver gets up from the chair.

“Stay where you are,” one of the officers warns.

And soon, a strong scent of black pepper over muskmelon hits Oliver's nose. This is new.

Oliver instinctively steps in front of Ellis. Sure enough, Elio storms in with a look that he is about to explode.

*

Ever since Oliver and Elio broke the news that Elio is her biological father, she literally has been epitomizing the definition of daddy’s girl. But today, it’s not going to fly. Although between the alpha-omega pair, alpha indeed is the head of household. It’s a social tradition Elio and Oliver respectably follow with a bit of twist. A free range rearing. Oliver once mentioned that Ellis and Olive could get away with murder under Elio’s roof. True, unconventional and unusual as this may sound, it was not much different from how Elio grew up. When it comes to their younglings, Elio lets Oliver have more say on the details. Mother knows better, Elio once said. Therefore, Oliver choosing not to purr just to calm or appease Elio at the police station is a sensible and thought-out decision. Oliver is showing his respect that Elio is able to keep his composure and leveled rationality.

“(as you wish,)” says Elio dutifully.

Oliver takes in a breath before he steps away and sits down across from Ellis and Elio.

.

“At times, binary thinking can help us survive: fight or flight, a choice between two options, a fork in the road. As in, it has its place and time. But binaries seldom get us to the heart of the matter. Though binaries frame questions, but they cannot describe the complexities and ambiguities of human experience, not to mention a given agenda at hand.”

“Papa––,” Ellis drawls, trying to protest. Oliver catches her almost rolling her eyes.

Elio raises his hand just under his shoulder level before he continues. Ellis gets what his father means and subdues her sigh.

“By letting yourself be engaged in the same rhetoric of 'us and them', you also became a part of the one you despise the most. Yes, thanks to your friend, it showed the unprovoked use of police force. What would have happened if something were to happen to that recording? What if you were omega?”

“So, what? No matter how the other side behave, I always have to take the highroad?”

Elio breathes in slowly, not to react to her risen tone.

“It’s not about taking the highroad. In some cases, one must fight fire with fire.”

Ellis swears in Italian under her breath, turning her head toward over her shoulder.

“Mini, (please listen to your father,)” Oliver says firmly at her dismissive behavior.

Ellis knows that having Oliver in the same room is much safer than being alone with her father.

Alpha to alpha in one-on-one could get ugly and bloody, literally. So, the very fact that Elio hasn’t request him and Ellis to be left alone means a lot.

“I’m not trying to lecture you, dolce bambina. Remember we talked about the prescription fire around the vegetation?”

Ellis nods, barely.

Oliver clears his throat. Ellis darts her eyes and corrects her attitude then says,

“Yes, Papa.”

“We learned that each prescription fire must be planned, considering variables like the wind direction, the speed, the humidity and such. Even after the fire was set, it must be monitored. So it could be reined in or put out before it spreads past the designated area and purpose. The same applies here. I deeply understand you were and still are doing the right thing. Yes, the beginning started as you intended but by getting fired up in the same manner as the opposition of your stance, you unnecessarily put yourself in danger.”

“You only live once.”

Oh, such a tart mouth, Oliver thinks to himself.

“True,” Elio subdues his sigh, “okay, I’m gonna borrow your mother’s point-of-view here. You know how appearance determines things surrounding our daily lives, right?”

“Yes.”

“There is not a single day that goes by, media spinning words around, editing the soundbites to fit their own agenda by taking it out of context.”

“Yes.”

“What would you do if someone were to spin what happened today and make you a villain of the whole story?”

“I’ll show and prove them wrong.”

“Correct. However, wouldn’t your time and effort be best spent on letting more people know of your cause? Because once the so-called appearance has set in, you will undoubtedly be spending a lot of time and energy trying to prove something you didn’t have to, from the first place.”

“It’s not my fault that mob of people often chooses to be ignorant.”

“Again, you are correct. But we are not talking about something that is not in our control. I’m not saying that at all. We are talking about the things we can control.”

“Urgh!!” Ellis pushes herself up and blazes into what Oliver could only describe as alpha aggression, “I DON’T NEED TO CONTROL ANYTHING!”

Elio’s upper back tightens straight, “that’s it,” and he snarls.

In less than a split second, the coppery scent hits Oliver’s nose. Oliver fists his hands in his seat. This makes Oliver swallow hard. He wouldn’t know how he would handle if his beloved and his daughter go into rut at the same time. Oliver calls Elio’s name quietly and Elio presses his open palm down in the air, reaching his arm towards Oliver’s direction. Though he instantly understands what his husband intends with his gesture, Oliver couldn’t help but feeling on the edge.

Ellis growls in frustration, turning around, pacing in erratic small circles. Oliver sees that Ellis is trying to control her anger. The skin around her neck reddens as she continues to fume. Oliver does not quite agree with the time and place Elio selected to teach their young adult alpha of how to commend her alpha-ness. But the experience as an omega is vastly different from being an alpha.

At the same time, his teacher brain kicks in and throws logical suppositions at himself; that this bare concrete structure is the safest place for a first time alpha to rut; that Olive not being here as he does not need to witness it (and is still too young, anyways). Plus, Elio probably remembers how his first rut was, better than anyone else in this whole wide world, he is the perfect person to teach his own offspring what it is to be an alpha. Moreover, going into rut is not just a bad thing. It is a part of who Ellis is. With all these thoughts jumbling in his head, Oliver feels a bit parched as he gulps down his anxiety and opts to trust his husband.

“You feel the rage coming up. That’s alpha gene for you. And if you got that from my side of the family, you are probably feeling a ball of red hot coal churning right under your throat. It is in your nature. An alpha to do what you are born to do.”

Ellis sighs out audibly in frustration.

“(What was I supposed to do?)” Ellis says in Italian, with defiance, “I could have taken that stupid beta officer by myself. I could have just blamed it on my biology, saying that it was out of my control and would've gotten off easy with a neutral shot.”

_Cunning._

“If that’s the case, why are you defending your lesser gender friend, engaged in the cause, and the peaceful protest from the first place?”

“We were just trying to show making an incorrect move after years of GFA being effective is way worse than wrong.”

“Even when you knew that you had other, though may not be as savory, choice?”

“(Because–)”

“(Because what?)”

“Because people, WE are better than that. Human beings are not just some animal governed by their biology. Urghhh–”

“So, you are also denying that an alpha’s nature is alpha’s nature. Then, tell me this. The police officer you became violent with, was he following his nature? Or was he doing his job?”

“He was running his mouth,” Ellis says it in such contemptuous manner.

“To provoke you, yes.”

“Was it his job to provoke peaceful protesters? Was that part of his job?” Ellis asks with her chest up, glaring at her papa. To Oliver’s relief, Elio does not react to her provocation. Because he knows her anger is not directed at him.

“No, but it was his job to disband and end the protest as soon as possible.”

“But he didn’t have to be verbally abusive.”

“No, he didn’t have to. It was his choice. To rile young adults with purer intention and bigger heart than he could ever have.”

Ellis suddenly pauses. Her chest still heaving two beats faster. But Oliver senses a change in his daughter. There’s my baby girl, Oliver remarks to himself. A distinct expression comes on her face, though she is clearly still upset, things are finally clicking in; falling into right places.

Elio hums, “see? He, as a police officer used one of his arsenals to push your button.”

Ellis sighs quietly, “so, I let him take advantage of my biology.”

“Sadly, yes.”

“that fucking, son of a–––.”

“Ellis,” Oliver interjects firmly with a low voice.

“I’m sorry, mama,” offers Ellis, tucking her chin lightly towards her chest.

The tightness and the tension in the air gradually clears inside the cell and three just remain in their respectable place without further words. It’s a comfortable silence. Everyone understanding each other; agreeing to disagree in some; in unequivocal agreement in others. Ellis is processing things in her own way. Elio and Oliver observe her wordlessly until a female beta police officer comes over and calls for the head of household. It appears Elio is being asked to sign a couple of papers. Oliver slowly gets up out of his seat and approaches Ellis.

“Ellie-baby,” Oliver calls his daughter quietly.

Ellis drops her head and defeatedly walks into Oliver’s arms. She murmurs her apologies against his chest, Oliver feeling his shirt moistens with her hot tears. He runs his open palm slowly, whispering their own speak into her ears, pulling her in close. The background mumble of Elio and the officer end. Oliver feels Elio’s palm on his shoulder.

It is Ellis who extends her arms towards her papa. Oliver lets go of his baby girl from his embrace and Elio envelops her in. Ellis nudges the crown of her head right under Elio's chin. Elio smiles with his lips lightly pressed together, tucking his daughter closer. She says her apology against Elio's skin. Elio hums warmly. And Oliver hears Elio mentioning Karim. Ellis whine-groans, pout-grumbling how crazy uncle Karim'd get. Elio chuckles low, gently sway-lulling his daughter calm. You're gonna explain what happened to Olive. Non mi va. Perché non mi va.

Just like that, Ellis is Mini again, in Elio's arms. A wonderful smile blooms on Oliver's face. And Elio says,

“Let’s get you home.”

.

| | | END SEGMENT | | |

\----------------------------------------

**[ Us Four ]; Elio POV_A few years earlier, one particular morning of the next generation Perlman household in urban New York.**

“Ellis Nicole Annie May Perlman!” I call her name, towards her room down the hall.

Olive in his booster seat, happily num-num-ing Oliver’s homemade breakfast smoothie, from a purple dragon spoon that has a no-spill-or-tilt notch.

“Here,” Oliver says tenderly, handing me the cotton hankerchief, “I’ll go get her.”

Oliver presses his lips on top of Olive before he strides off to Mini's room. I flick my wrist to check the time as I keep my watchful eye on Olive. A few minutes later, Ellis comes out yawning. If she keeps that up, I think to myself, she’s going to dislocate her jaw. Oliver following her behind, toweling her hair.

“G’morning, papa,” she leans in, to give me a peck on my cheek, almost in auto-pilot mode. Then, she yawns again as if she cannot resist herself from it.

“I’m not gonna have a young lady talk, am I?” I say to her.

“No, papa, nothing salacious on my end,” as she pour herself a bowl of her favorite cold cereal, “homeworks done, bags are packed,” and she lists on, like Oliver does everything: make a list and check it twice.

“Then, enlighten me why my baby girl is so tired this morning,” I enquire her.

Because she’s always the first one out of her room. Very diligent and thoughtful young teenager.

“I couldn’t sleep with all those noises you guys were making last night.”

“pffttt––,” I almost choke on my espresso.

Only twelve but she is undoubtedly an alpha. Never mince words, a straight shooter. Oliver dabs the kitchen towel without any comment, as I glance down my front to check whether I need to change.

He doesn’t even react to her bluntness. And I catch him blushing a little.

“Mini, we… uh––,” I begin, “your mother and I…”

“aw–, don’t worry papa, I’ll be fine. I have homeroom this morning and I think I can sneak in some morning nap,” Mini assures coolly but she repeats 'I think' once more under her breath.

She shakes her head in an expression of a rather drawn out 'anyways' and continues, “besides, I want the person who I’m in love with to sound like that when I get to have that intimacy.”

This time, Oliver’s head snaps up and Mini’s shoulder rises in defense, “when I’m old enough,” she puts her palms up too, and reiterates, “old enough,” now emphasis on the word, _enough_.

Oliver asks whether she’d like to have a cup. She says coffee only gives her gitters, instead of making her awake, and ever so courteously declines Oliver’s offer. As you wish, Ellie-baby. None of us speak any further on the subject and settle back into our normal routine. And four of us enjoy our breakfast together as we did any other day. I double-check all my things before I walk towards our small but quaint foyer. Olive is babbling on happily holding Ellis’s hand. Yah? Yah? Are you happy to go meet your friends? Mini says to him, cooing. She then picks him up and hands him over to my arms. And I see Oliver threading his shoulder cross bag over his head. Immaculately dressed for work.

We walk out the door together. Oliver locks the front door and give another twist. The school bus emerges on my peripheral vision and Olive turns his head towards where the rumbling engine sound is coming from.

“Yes, Mini’s bus,” I say to him.

Olive claps his hands together with a wide smile. I brush his hair away from his forehead.

Mini tips up on her toes and presses a kiss on my cheek.

“Have a great day, dolce bambina,” I say to her, giving her a good firm squeeze.

“Bambina,” Olive repeats after me, giggling and um-mah-um-mah-ing with his mouth.

Then, my heart swells as her words softly land in my ear, before she parts.

“Don’t worry, papa, I’ll forever be a humble cheerleader for your nookies, love you lots.”

.

| | | END SEGMENT | | |

\----------------------------------------

**[** **Touch Or Watch ]; 3rd person POV**

This is simply a self-indulgent PWOP of ElliOllie in this A/B/O-verse.

“You heard me.”

Oliver just blinks, looking at Elio, frozen still on his way to bathroom.

“Is it because I came home late?”

Elio’s right shoulder tips up just a bit, holding his gaze to tell him that he means what he said.

Oliver has been away for one of the classics and philosophy conferences, for a week, in the Midwest. Four weeks ago, Oliver was invited to be one of the speakers there; with a handsome amount of compensation. To his credit, he did ask Elio to accompany him. You need to try the mid-western barbeque. I don’t wanna. How come? Elio frowned: he didn’t remember. Coming Thursday, Elio was presenting his fifth opera piece he wrote and it was going to be spectacular. The hazel eyes has been stressing over getting things right with a local youth choir.

“Elio–,” the blond calls out the hazel eyes' name, with a look of reason and logic.

._._._.  
When people ask how he and Oliver got together, Elio just says that it isn’t something remarkable. Oliver once pointed out that Elio has a knack for downplaying things, when he overheard Elio shrugged the question off with that same line at one of the parties they attended. Elio insists that it is not the kind of tale that’d inspire songs or feelgood movie scripts that make people go warm and fuzzy. “What’s wrong with trying to keep our saga to ourselves?” Elio retorted.

Olive, now five, loves the piano more than his papa. Oliver wanted another soon after Olive was weaned. “I’m not getting any younger, you know,” said Oliver. But Elio insisted that he’s happy having one of each. Yes, Oliver did quip back. What about filling the house with more kids? Oliver remembered what Elio said when he proposed to him. After experiencing how nesting instinct works for an omega, it was a very long nine months for Elio. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ the hazel eyes reasoned, ‘I loved every moment of it: the whole thing, the ups–, the downs––.’ Not forgetting to mention how gorgeous Oliver looked to him, knowing Olive growing inside him. In the end, Elio just wanted Oliver all to himself. Even through tiffs and disagreements, he can never get enough of Oliver.

*

Elio sometimes wonders what would have happened if he didn’t bump into Ellis in that local café. What if he decided to turn around when he saw the late morning crowd, of that place? Because it did cross his mind. His beautiful omega was borderline touch-starved when Elio kissed him one mid-day at a very unlikely place. That kiss soon progressed to Oliver kneeling down in front him, hot breaths, full blown glinting blue eyes, like that morning after their first night together, eight years back. His omega was aching to the bone for a gentle word, a smile, a tender brush of fingers along his jaw where Elio kissed and kissed under the hot Italian sun, along his neck where his softly beading sweat trailed down the thin gold chain hung there. Elio remembered how much he missed Oliver’s scent. It hit the roof of his mouth hard making him surge with want and need for desperate closeness.

When Oliver finally shed his layers, arched against Elio’s hands with more intent than what he’d given before: their first heat together. Oliver’s hand trailed over Elio’s back, legs spread so his strong thighs encased Elio’s hips, the whisper of ‘ah,’ ‘mph,’ automatically escaped through Oliver’s parted lips. He had kissed Oliver, touched him with gentle affectionate hands, on his neck, on his cheek, on his mouth, brought him to the brink of release, stroking him inside and out, until Oliver tilted his head exposing his beautiful neck, his Adam's apple making slow wave, his chest heaving with quickened breaths, and his belly became taut. Elio lulled his tongue over him as if to lick every hurt, every unfulfilled promise away and to cover Oliver with his scent. Oliver whispered he never knew how good the gentling would be. Soon the blond finally opened for Elio, and breathed out a ragged, desperate moan of calling Elio by his name, almost like a prayer. That was when the dark curls thrust deep into Oliver’s slick moistened body. Elio rocked their bodies together and gave his body in its entirety to Oliver’s pleasure, to satiate his heat, to demonstrate he is the alpha for him, the one and only, to consume the years apart and burn every second of it into a thin smoke as if it never existed. Then, Elio took Oliver’s for his own, until their skin was shining with thin layers of sweat, Oliver’s pleasure thick on his palm and on Elio’s stomach, his own pooling deep inside Oliver’s.  
._._._.

“Elio, please,” the blond pleads.

Elio just looks at him with ‘do you see this face? does this say I’m kidding?’, crossing his arms slowly, breathing out through his nose, intentionally audible. If you haven’t figured it out, I mean to feast on you. Elio’s eyes flicker. Oliver darts his eyes a little. It surprises Elio every time, seeing Oliver blush like that. Oh, don't you worry; Ellis and Olive are at Nic’s parents and they will be staying the whole weekend.

Oliver clicks his tongue.

“Fine,” the blue eyes agrees, begrudgingly, and tips his head sideways a little.

Elio hops up out of the bed and trots close behind him. Oliver hooks his long firm arm over Elio’s head that makes Elio burst out giggles, nudging his ribs lightly.

As Oliver turns on the shower, reaching behind the glass shower door, Elio ticks the lid of the toilet down with his finger and it lands on the seat with a muffled thud. Oliver just shakes his head. Elio parks his butt on it, pulling one of his knees in.

“You sure you don’t want to join me?”

Elio shakes his head, placing his chin on top of the bent knee, “hurry up and get the gunk off!!”

“Brat,” he tosses tartly, checking the water temperature.

Oliver grabs the neckline of his undershirt and pulls it over his head. Then he drops his sweat pants and his boxer in one sweep motion. Elio can’t hide his grin and he knows it. Oliver bunches up his t-shirt in his hands while he kicks his rolled up pants with his foot. Three pieces of clothing—reeking the mixture of airplane, hard to pinpoint food smell, street dust, and other people with Oliver’s sweat—land perfectly in the corner hamper.

“You enjoying yourself?”

“I like what I’m seeing,” Elio answers, “very much,” with a grin.

Oliver walks into the shower and the steady stream of water curtains around him steadily as he leans in his head first, then his neckline as his tipped his head, then his shoulder where Elio's a bite mark lies.

_Fuucckkk_

Elio knows Oliver is not doing that on purpose. It’s just how he does it. Oliver’s big palm brushes up from his forehead over to the back of his skull. The warm water must feel good. Elio thinks. The flight back home wasn't long but going through the crowd as an omega still was a taxing thing for Oliver. Maybe he should have offered to run a bath for him, instead. Elio nibbles at his lower lip. No, Oliver wouldn't like being treated like a helpless underling.

Oliver is standing there soaking it in, with his eyes closed ever so gently. Elio’s tongue darts out involuntarily and wets his lips. Oliver is half hard already. Something about being watched, as Elio wanted, is unexpectedly proving itself to be enticing. When Oliver automatically reaches for his body care product,

“nuh, uh! the other one,” Elio tells him, tipping his chin up a little.

Oliver tilts his head up and to the side minutely, through the stream. His eyes glint dark with a small smirk on his face. Elio sees Oliver's eyes squint; but he doesn’t relent. So Oliver points his finger to a bottle, with his eyebrows raised slightly. The shower is fogging up nicely with thin steam cloud. The overhead vent is doing a perfect job, Elio thinks to himself. The hazel eyes gives a single nod. Oliver just shakes his head lightly.

That one is the unscented body wash Mafalda made: she sent a couple them over last month, along with other goodies to remind Elio of home. It takes the daily grim and dirt off but doesn’t leave any scent on the skin. Oliver squeezes the bottle and the translucent gel pours out on his palm. He rubs his hands together and a generous amount of foam bubbles up quite quickly. Oliver runs one of his palms over his head and the other over his pectoral, then up and over his shoulder.

“I didn’t say you can touch,” says Elio, pointedly.

Oliver tsks with an expression, 'how am I supposed to wash off the day?'

Before the blue eyes gets a chance to quip back, Elio says with a tiny nod, “slowly, then,” his eyes dark.

Oliver dumps his chest in a single sigh. He slows his lathering and runs his palm over his skin. Around the shoulder, down the upper arm, gently cups his elbow, then circle around his outer forearm, a little rub between his palms, back up the inner forearm, up to the bicep and the dip, then left pectoral. His fingers spread for his rib muscles, gently running up and down the length. Oliver presses his palm around his abs. It tightens as he sucks in a breath. After a wide circle around his belly, his hand reaches down to his lower pelvic area and–

“I said _slowly_ ,” Elio says low, mouthing the words.

Oliver mouths okay, okay, with a smile. Elio can smell Oliver’s slick trickling down the back of his thigh as he gently wraps his hand around his erection. As instructed, Oliver runs his grip slowly from the base all the way to the top slit. It’s a piece Elio composes for himself, through his omega. The sound of aerated water stream, the warm steam fog layering over, Oliver’s glistening skin emanating the scent he missed for past few days.

Elio goes to him, taking in the sight, the scent, the heat, happily filling his lungs; being lured in by his own creation, his master piece, hooked. The alpha swiftly sheds his pajama and steps into the shower. He cups Oliver’s shoulder and turns him around, gently. Oliver sees his alpha’s maroon ring has threaded completely into his gorgeous hazel iris.

“I didn’t say you can stop,” Elio says to him quietly with a low rumble from the back of his throat.

Oliver lets out a small pliant whine Elio loves, casting his eyelashes down and low. Elio’s upper lip curls, showing his teeth, desire pulling heavy on his lower abdomen. The long blond eyelashes flutter with warm water dewing at its end. When the alpha takes a single step, Oliver leans down a little and nuzzles his cheek on Elio’s. Elio hears his omega purr.

Elio reaches down and runs his hand on Oliver’s hip as the omega nips and kisses Elio’s neck and his ear lobe. Oliver jumps a little with a start, when Elio’s firm hand grips the blond’s glut tightly as he circles his thumb around the omega’s ring muscle. The alpha knows Oliver is ready. But Elio takes his time.

Oliver trembles and swallows harshly, an eager sigh slipping out through his parted lips, and his hot tongue licks the shell of Elio’s ear. Then, he gently bites down the scenting gland just below Elio’s ear lobe. The hazel eyes knows what this means. Elio reaches his other hand up and cups the back of Oliver’s skull, his fingers carding through the hair there. The hazel eyes loves Oliver like this, without layers, vulnerable and exposed, wanting and suppliant for more.

Oliver’s hand reaches around and grips Elio’s wrist when the alpha is about to put third finger, in his omega’s slicked maw.

“You really are going to make me beg, aren’t you?” Oliver whispers low against Elio’s ear. It sounded a little more like a warning. But the alpha doesn't care.

With a grin that borders dangerous and dark, the alpha tips his head up a little and whispers ever so slowly, “tell me what you want, Elio.”

Oliver lets out a drawn out groan.

Elio peels his body away and Oliver involuntarily leans forward a little as if to resist the separation, and chases after his alpha, seeking the contact, the intimacy. Their eyes meet. Elio’s lips part, letting out a shuddering warm sigh. Oliver’s deep-ocean-blue eyes are flooded with the glistening gold. The blond bites his lower lip before he says:

“Turn me around and make me yours.”

.

| | | End SPECIAL FEATURE SEGMENT | | |

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Just-in-Case Chapter details ]   
> –Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 3 in E-flat major, Op. posth. 75, was originally begun as a Symphony in E-flat. The composer ultimately abandoned this symphony, but, in 1893, started to rework it into a piano concerto, before abandoning all but the first movement, which he completed as a concert piece for piano and orchestra. It was published posthumously, in 1894, as a single-movement Allegro Brillante. The Symphony No. 6 Pathétique was the last of Tchaikovsky's compositions to be performed in his lifetime, but the Allegro Brillante, now known as the Piano Concerto No. 3, was his last completed composition. Despite the composer's intentions stated prior to his death, there remains much argument as to what form this composition might have taken, had Tchaikovsky continued to work on the other movements,   
> –cucciolo: [Italian] endearing term for a son, puppy,   
> –dolce bambina: [Italian] endearing term for a daughter, sweet baby girl,   
> –'Non mi va,' 'Perché non mi va': from the movie. [Italian] 'I don't feel like it,' 'why don't you feel like it?'  
> –the title ‘4181’ is the 19th Fibonacci number. why 19th? 'cause it was originally posted in 2019. hehehe,   
> –Under-age alphas are not allow to rut before the age of 18 in this AU fic line. (*kuh hmm* Alphas rut, they get primal, they break things, they kill things, they go blind with rage, they then engulfed by the desire to procreate),   
> –In my very personal view, _sex_ –and intimacy that is related to it–is a language. (I’m not at all trying to lecture anyone or interject my opinion but…) I wanted Ellis and Olive to grow up in a household where those very personal and private expression between their parents are integral part of a conversation for healthy individual growth. Not something tainted by any other socio-political morae. Sex, in this AU fic at least, is not only a process(and a short story) but also a result/product from balancing act of love, passion, chaos, illogical emotions and desire, which often can lead to fear and judgement if one is not careful.  
> .  
> Thank you ALL for reading, your interest, & your time!  
> If any of you would like to read any other drabbles I posted before the purge, do please kindly let me know. Until then, I’ll see you in zeros and ones. *waving hands with a wide smile*  
> 


	14. Extra Sum'n Sum'n Sum'n

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not a new chapter but transcriber-me finally buckling down to get things back in order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \-------------------------------------  
> [ OUTLINE ]  
> It wasn’t just Oliver who suffered the consequence of the sudden yet inevitable separation, that fateful summer, all those years ago. A story, Elio hasn’t shared with Oliver, finds its way to reveal itself through an odd and unexpected event.  
> \-------------------------------------  
> this is not at all out the bat hot-and-heavy drabble. I’d say, more expositional.

**One. Off-kiltered**

Elio has always been a down-to-earth alpha. His upbringing under Prof. and Annella garnered him this unique aptitude and the unparalleled air of being put-together, unlike the majority of stereotypical alphas. Sure, as far as biology goes, the bonding is the singular driving force between a mated pair. It can only grow stronger. Oliver and Elio's relationship is not an exception to this popular belief.

For Elio’s case, however, how Oliver and he came to bond was a little bit out of the general norm: especially Ellis born without the alpha’s knowledge. Yet, what made Elio more distinguished from other alphas is his willingness to connect with Oliver in every single level. In other words, Elio actively chooses to understand his mate and constantly thrives for balance. Some may say he is a softy (being sensibly sensitive, to a point where Oliver could say Elio is empathetically in tuned with every frequency he holds). Some may say he is not alpha enough (a typical American notion of how an omega should be treated is summed into, ‘barefoot-n-pregnant,’ ‘obedience,’ and ‘always open and ready to take the alpha’s knot.’ Two generations of, currently living, population who haven’t seen the true female alpha, it was quite inevitable for this abominable notion to settle deep in U.S.). Others may say Elio is o-slick-whipped (Elio was never really big on sharing his personal life with anyone. He felt he didn’t need to explain why his magnificent one of a kind omega can do as he pleases, majority of times). Older alpha males, in particular, commented that Elio and Oliver are just being quintessential millennials.

No matter.

But that evening was—

 _different_.

*

When Oliver steps in, the air inside the house feels heavy. It is overtly tinged with something coppery, like a friction burn smoke. The kind that would singe your nostrils even in a single inhale and continues to scratch and sear down the back of your throat – a smell one would easily encounter in the metal fabrication shop. There is also something, definitely biting in the air.

When Oliver sheds his cross-shoulder bag, Ellis and Olive come out from the nest. Not from their own rooms.

Odd.

Oliver wants to ask why two were in the nest. Instead, Oliver decides to go with the flow and brings his beloved two younglings into his embrace. When three part, Oliver pulls Ellis into his arms and does his usual Mama check. And Olive wraps his arms around Oliver’s leg, nuzzling his cheek. He senses Ellis faux-‘everything is fine.’ Two exchange their daily check-in-s: how was school? Anything exciting? How goes the club? The conversation goes well. But Oliver catches the subtle a beat-too-quick pull away, when Ellis lets go of her mama. Oliver doesn’t comment on it but picks up Olive into his arms.

“How’s my munchkin?”

Olive mumbles something against his mama's skin, burying his nose between the crook of Oliver’s neck and under the earlobe: his scenting gland. Oliver runs his large palm on Olive’s back, as he leads his children to the living room, whispering their own speak into his dainty ear, soothing him calm.

But no sign of Elio. It is nothing out of the ordinary: Elio not being home, even when he didn’t have any schedule. _The alpha thing_ , so people say.

"Mama?" asks Ellis leaning close to Oliver.

"Yes, baby," replies calmly, noticing her hooked arm around his softly bent elbow getting slightly tighter.

"Can we stay over at grams tonight?"

As an alpha, by their biology, they never mince words. Though her words were direct, it is very unusual of her to ask without being prompted. Regardless of how free-range Elio’s parenting belief has been, the request such as this must be conferred with the head of household.

Ellis just darts her eyes when Oliver turns his chin to meet her two bright hazel globes. At the same time, Oliver feels his omega son sighing into his skin.

Oliver regards them a little more prudently. Though Ellis is now in her teens, Oliver’s omega instinct for them is still very much strong. Because it’s the omega who decides when to savor the link between their younglings. Except for a bit of nervousness, his babies are okay.

He catches a slight tremble of Ellis' hand.

“Sure,” answers Oliver.

To his surprise, Ellis dumps her chest in a quick sigh of relief, quickly tip-toes herself up and presses a kiss on Oliver's cheek with, "grazie, mama, you are the best," promptly turns on her heels. She holds out her hand to Olive as Oliver puts him down. The omega catches a genuine smile of relief from his young son as they start walking away, towards their rooms.

Despite the age differences, Ellis has been a great sister. Sometimes she gets too protective of Olive that makes Oliver wonder who his real mother is. Ellis tells Olive what they are going to pack for their sleep over, Olive trailing behind her closely, holding her hand. Olive whispers something to her and Ellis shushes him.

Oliver pokes his head into his nest and finds nothing much is disturbed. He could smell his children’s recent scent and the comforter showing some lingering warmth on its surface.

When Oliver makes it to the master bedroom upstairs, the door is locked. He tries wiggling it open to make sure he wasn't mistaken. Then, Oliver hears Elio clearing his throat.

_So he is home._

“Elio?” Oliver calls him carefully.

Oliver hears Elio rustling out of bed, his feet padding close to the door. But the door doesn't open immediately. Oliver flinches a little, wondering. He so desperately wishes to ask, what is going on? Is everything okay? Instead, Oliver swallows purposefully slow, steeling himself. He isn’t about to psych himself out by doing guessing games. His alpha is home, their children are safe. Whatever comes, Oliver affirms to himself, he will deal with it as is.

There is a soft click. And as soon as Elio cracks the door ajar, Oliver understands everything.

Oliver hears very low frequency rumble that borderlines deadly dangerous and irresistibly seductive. His alpha is doing his absolute best to keep himself under control. When Oliver tries to open the door, a thicker dismissive growl resonates through the gap. Elio is breathing heavily.

“Baby, let me–.”

“Ellis... Olive...”

“Elio, I–."

"No, the kids!" then the door shuts close and the nob clicks.

Oliver’s lips part to say something but,

"Mama!"

Oliver hears Ellis calling him from downstairs. So he fills his lungs, intentionally closing his eyes shut to ground himself before leaning towards the stair case. Oliver takes another long inhale and replies her, "Yes, Mini!" hoping she could catch his consciously-amped-up calming purring.

“We love you!!”

“Ellis, the––”

“Don't worry. I got it! Love you~.”

And he hears the front door open-then-close. Oliver walks down the corridor and peeks out over the window. Ellis and Olive get into a Lyft and his phone tings with a confirmation text message. Oliver fishes out his cellphone and thumbs the app. The GPS is still active. Oliver breathes out the relief at seeing two different colored dots moving down the street as the vehicle travels. His smart young adult alpha girl still wears the child locator bracelet, for the sake of her mama.

Oliver walks back to the starkly closed bedroom door and gingerly places palm on it. He sighs.

“Mio caro.”

No answer. He presses his lips together.

Oliver quashes his sigh and gently leans his cheek against the door.

“Oliver—”

No answer.

Oliver squares his jaw, subduing his mixed emotion as much as he can.

.

Elio and Oliver have a very healthy and regular sex life, aside from what their biology dictating their mating needs. Let’s just say, ever since their true first heat together, Oliver never had a thimbleful of inkling on whether he is lacking his desires fulfilled. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was only thinking about himself. Because Rut isn’t something an alpha can control. Same goes for omega’s heat. Once the bond is made, there are two categories for onset of heat-rut cycle in a bonded pair (in general); i. symbiotic (a bond enforced) synchronization and ii. reactive synchronization. Of course, the normal & the usual Elio’s rut belongs to the former one. Elio had this incredibly keen nose to catch the onset of burgeoning pre-heat every single time, even before Oliver noticed.

.

Oliver isn’t going to assume; he repeats to himself. Although the heaviness in his gut tells him that this is exactly what is about to happen to him, he is not about to jump to conclusion. The omega quickly does another self-evaluation of himself, yet again. He didn’t wake up drenched in cold sweat this morning, or for the past few days. There wasn't a hint of sparse spotting of copious sleek on his side of the sheets. His heart rate is within the norm. His palms are not clammy. He didn’t feel feverish or woozy. There is no roiling desire to be filled, not in his lower abdomen or his ring muscles. He is _not_ in heat.

Oliver takes in a measure breath. _You are not going to assume_ , Oliver restraints his thoughts from rambling out of control with the words in his head. His throat waves hard and the omega repeats once more before he whines against the door, in submission, pleading, hoping to tap into their bond for its calming effect.

A few moments later, the nob clicks. Oliver swallows hard, his lips part gently.

Cautiously, Oliver steps in. Elio doubles back to the other side of the bed. He looks feral; his luscious curls damp, forehead sweaty, his face ghost white, his pupils in pin hole, irises are completely threaded with red, panting heavily. Elio is in full rut.

Oliver throat bobs in hard vertical line. How long has he been like this?

From the looks of it, Elio has been holding himself back for a quite some time. Goodness knows for how long.

As this out-of-sync rut is the very first time for them, Oliver has a choice; either go grab the neutral shot from the medicine cabinet or just bare down. Fully understanding how the externally introduced chemical always have a risk of affecting the physiology, Oliver chooses the latter, without any reservation.

“It's okay. I'm yours,” says Oliver, choosing the latter.

Oliver’s words only fuels Elio. His upper lip curls, growling.

“Il mio caro, (I’m yours. I belong to you),” Oliver tries again with Italian, dialing up his Omega whine, showing his full pliancy.

Elio dumps his chest harshly, screwing his eyes shut, grimacing to himself.

Oliver quickly thinks, reaches his hand across his chest, over to his other neck, on his scenting gland and gives a hard squeeze. Trying not to make a sudden move, the omega carefully peels his hand from his neck and extends it forward. With the open palm side up, Oliver very slowly lowers himself down to the floor, one knee at a time.

Elio’s nose tips up, taking a whiff.

“(That’s it, baby. It’s me. I’m here, Oliver–, my love),” pleads the omega, trying his best not to sound patronizing.

Elio’s chest heaves, his mouth starts to water.

With his free hand, Oliver slowly unbuttons his shirt. That is exactly when Oliver hears Elio deep snarl.

_Aw, boy, this is gonna hurt._

.

–Here, I’m pretending that the strong and reliable children protection program is in place for Lyft, Uber and smattering methods of other personal transportation, to contact both the parents and the destination in the most up-to-date AES encryption (preventing predators from accessing them, without the invasion of privacy, nor the monetization of gathered such information).  
–dialogue in parenthesis is in Italian.

◊◊◊◊◊◊

*DISCLAIMER*  
This is in no way that I’m condoning any type of violence in anyone’s private bedroom ecosystem. The depiction arranged here is for trope specific (O–, ye–, hear MY PLEA; and focus where these elements stem from, and what they truly signify).  
and for this AU, very very unusual episode of rut by an otherwise very sensible alpha Elio is the key here. *please I beg for mercy (_--)_ 

**Two. Reden Oder Sterben**

Who knew there is such a thing called _first_ between two people who have been together all these years? Granted their actual years since the legitimate bond is short, Oliver and Elio never imagined they would share _this_ first, in mid-week. Thank goodness, the kids were away.

It’s a ritual, a form of dance, to ultimately test each other. If it were a stereotypical case, what is about to happen should have taken place before Oliver and Elio exchanged their first bite mark.

.

Since this is the first time ever, Oliver is seeing Elio in full rut while he is stone-cold sober, unaffected by his chromosome tied hormones, the omega is beyond nervous. And he takes in _every. single. detail._

The vein popped on his forehead,  
Elio’s canine protruding more prominently,  
His neck, muscles, and tendons tight, and,  
His chest heaving a beat faster than usual.

Unlike alphas, omegas are born with natural sixth-sense to know how to react. As Oliver elected to begin with submission, it’s up to Elio how it’s going to proceed. Though the general meaning of submission may appear to belong to a passiveness, of what this society considers as minority and lesser gender, this compliant acquiescence from Oliver, in its fundamental essence, is literally saying:

 _Now prove yourself to be a worthy alpha_ _._

Elio approaches him, with a bit too much wariness. In his own way, the alpha is trying to say he is not coming for a kill. But he sees the fear spark in Oliver’s eyes. He can sense that much from the omega without breaking a sweat. Elio snarls. Though he is in full rut, and his rationality & sensibility are shoved all the way in the backseat, the alpha hates seeing his beloved in such a state. But what Elio didn’t know is how much he was craving Oliver’s scent. Oliver smells so good. Beyond divine. The freshly squeezed aroma carried by the air gives him no choice but to drool. Elio wants to lick it from his omega’s pliantly unfolded palm. All he wants to do is to cover his mouth over Oliver’s neck and teethe on it, around it, so his tongue would be completely coated with its juiciness. Elio desperately wants to press the whole width of his tongue, run it on Oliver’s skin, up along his neck, filling the roof of his mouth with that incense. Yet, the alpha knows that he must act with care, though it is getting difficult by the second, not to completely let go of his rational brain. So Elio steels himself as he closes the distance, with all his might. When Elio is two steps away, he takes a hold of Oliver’s gently outstretched hand and buries his nose.

.

Oliver gives a small yelping noise as his body collides with Elio’s. Elio is having his way with Oliver: his grip under Oliver jaw, pulling him up against the bedroom door. From the outside looking in, Oliver is leaning with a horse stance, his entire spine flush against the wooden door, making them on leveled height. Elio’s nose is less than a breath away from Oliver’s. The omega whines softly, in a higher pitch. The alpha’s nose crinkles as if to say, don’t you dare test me. Oliver swallows hard, his lashes casting low. It only takes the slightest shift of Elio’s thumbs to part the folds of Oliver’s already unbuttoned shirt. Elio snaps at Oliver’s mouth, scraping his incisors over the Omega’s bottom lip. Elio’s nose is overwhelmed with the sweet omega perfume that is now more amplified. A blatant indication that Oliver’s body is attempting to sync with his bonded mate. On top of his usual popcorn nuttiness, the scent is underpinned with an earthy base-note of expertly hand toasted cacao beans. Just by this, his omega’s physiology has molded all that he is, to compliment his alpha. It’s like a lock-and-key evolution mechanism between a mated pair. Accentuating Elio’s natural muskmelon rind base and refreshing spearmint top-note. Elio’s eyes glint dangerously, with a slight start, by the sight of Oliver bare shoulders unveiling, as Oliver slowly shrugs off his button-down, one shoulder at a time.

Elio lets out another snarl, clawing his fingertips possessively on Oliver’s flank, his other hand cradling up on the base of Oliver’s skull. Oliver tries his best not to flinch away. Regardless of how this evening is going to pan out, they promised that they will always be equal to one another.

“I want what you want,” whispers Oliver, rumbling the top of his chest with his omega purr.

Elio gives a toothy grin as if he is bestowing him a reward, for what Oliver just said. Then, he reaches up to paw at the garment, to yank the rest of it away from Oliver’s body. Oliver dips his chin lightly as an acknowledgement and sheds all of his clothes, one by one. He first fishes out his wrists, right one first, then, the left. He undoes the buckle of his suit pants and pulls the zipper open. The undone dress-trousers hangs around, just above his knees. Oliver brings his bent arm slowly over his shoulder, and bunches up his heather grey undershirt. Elio doesn’t move or give him any room. Oliver takes in an audible breath and frees his torso from it. As still-warm clothes pool around at his feet, the omega reaches down his hand, on Elio’s cotton boxer, and runs his palm against Elio’s erection. Soon, Oliver feels the fabric moistening against the heel of his palm, with the alpha's precome and sweat. The alpha grins wide.

Elio kisses him eagerly, without stopping, pressing his nose against Oliver’s face, letting go of his predicated notion of where his leveled reasoning lies. Fully giving into his alpha desires, of being spent and sated, ever greedy for more. When Oliver’s hands rove around Elio’s back, he lets out a whine-like groan with urgency and desperation, Elio never knew he could feel.

Oliver breathes raggedly through his nose, as Elio doesn’t seem to let go of his lips. Elio’s tongue contours around the inside of Oliver’s mouth, as if he’d never kissed Oliver before. Unrelenting, prudish, yet never yielding kisses carry on between them. Together, two hold each other with matching ferocity towards one another, as if they are trying to merge into one. That is the moment Oliver feels warm trickle down on his inner thighs. He feels his legs about to buckle.

There has been absolutely no need for Oliver to use his Voice on Elio. But they are already on this venture together, into an unknown territory of their relationship; so Oliver knows he must muster one, even though he despises the notion. So, Oliver pulls his lips away, panting hard, literally gasping for air. And immediately, Elio growls as a protest, leaning in to re-envelop his lips on Oliver’s.

“ _Bed_ ,” says Oliver with his omega Voice, reengaging his core to stay upright. Oliver tips his chin up a little, just before Elio snaps his teeth at him.

Oliver feels the shallow puffs of sizzling breath against his skin. Surprisingly, Elio launches into what can only be described as an assault of lips and teeth, on the omega’s bare skin — of the collar bone, of his shoulder, and up the line of his neck — as Elio gruffly peels Oliver from the door. Elio then swivels their bodies around and nudges the temple of his head under Oliver’s jaw, while keeping his palms on Oliver, making the omega to take backwards steps.

Oliver would do practically anything his husband demands of him and never deny any of his whims. When the back of Oliver’s mid-thigh touches the edge of the bed, his head whooshes as the alpha shoves his shoulder on Oliver, making him plop on the bed. Elio’s brusque hands virtually rips Oliver’s slacks from his ankles, shoving his drier-than-usual hand down the omega’s pelvic area. The alpha’s maroon flooded eyes glint as his hand feels Oliver’s already half-hard arousal. Oliver feels the raised skin of Elio’s palm and flashes a brief twitch. But he hears Elio’s tenor growl and screwshuts his eyes. I trust you. Oliver says it over and over in his head. Elio hovers over his torso, satisfied at the omega’s reaction.

Without wasting any more moment, Elio tugs Oliver’s form fitting boxer down to his thigh. Omega’s lightly chaffed erection bobs at the level of Elio’s face. The alpha licks his lips, his eyes lambent. Then Elio suddenly pauses, his breaths hot, mouth almost a slobber; as if it is his first time seeing Oliver like this, as if he is wondering how such a superb thing could ever be hidden away from him, as if he is debating the best method to engulf it into his mouth. I want what you want, Oliver echoes the very thought once more in his head. Elio’s eyes rakes up from Oliver’s exposed lower body and lands dead on Oliver’s half lidded eyes. He looks positively ravenous. For some reason, Oliver does sense Elio is asking for a permission. So the omega dips his chin lightly, without breaking their eye contact. The edge of Elio’s kiss swollen lips tips up, before he descends over Oliver’s throbbing erection.

Oliver threads all ten fingers in Elio’s luscious damp curls as the alpha happily licks up Oliver’s full length, torturously slow. Elio’s soft pink tongue feels as rough as a fine-grain sandpaper, as every papillae has been raised to take in as much of the taste of his mate. Oliver subdues his hiss. One of the benefits of heat haze is that it neutralizes/numbs the sensitivity towards these types of friction burn, without hampering the pleasure. This evening, however, as Oliver entered this union, with crystal clear lucidity, he just has to experience them as they come. Elio swirls his tongue, flushing it flat around, and envelops Oliver down, all the way to the back of his throat. Oliver fists the sheet into his grip. A delicious pain. Oliver feels the passage of Elio’s throat flex-and-wave, as the room gets filled with seductive slurping sound. The alpha digs his clawed fingertips on Oliver’s inner thigh, before he reaches down to sling one of the omega’s legs over his shoulder. He swiftly wraps his fingers around Oliver’s saliva laden erection, as his head bobs up to the bulbous. When Elio’s lips pull away, a trail of viscous slaver connects the two men, his tip to his lips. The tightly wound alpha’s fingers twist along all the way up, scooping the liquid into its grip. Oliver couldn’t help but to moan low and long. He wants to beg him not to tease. He suppresses the urge as this evening is for Elio. And yes, his whimper soon gurgles up to his throat. Oliver rolls in his nether lip and gnaws on it, to stop the words from escaping his lips.

Without warning, Elio thrusts his now viscid fingers into Oliver’s slick moistened hole, as he re-engulfs the omega’s aching salute. Even in full rut, Elio expertly thumb-gathers in Oliver’s slick, into his fingers, massaging the omega’s perineum. Oliver feels Elio’s hot lips trail down low. And with a sound of small pop, the omega feels the raised tongue on his puckered rim. Aw, fuck, Elio.

Elio continues to thrust his fingers inside the omega with vigor, — twisting, scissoring — making Oliver tremble. He licks his upper lip, tilting his head back. This version of Elio is definitely bolder and coarse, but Oliver never knew how gifted Elio is, with all this, until this very day.

Elio rises up as he gently glides out his two fingers from the omega’s body and Oliver feels alpha’s searing moist tip against his ring muscle.

“ _Please, Oliver_ ,” the omega finally pleads in his Voice.

The look on Elio’s face is very hard to describe. It’s almost frightening yet incredibly calm. What is he doing? Oliver wonders. Elio is intensely gazing down at his exquisitely disheveled omega. He then simply places his palm on the bottom of the omega’s erection, making it tip over against Oliver’s lower abs and presses his heel. A tiny semi-translucent bead forms on top. That’s when Elio runs his splayed palm slowly up the length as his fingers warp around Oliver’s toasty-and-raw erection, leveling his breath. Ah–– Oliver gulps hard, his mouth parched. And Oliver does his best to convey his permission, holding his gaze. I want you. You know I’m beyond ready.

Elio’s upper lip curls as he leans down in one swift motion. Oliver feels his alpha settle inside him with one smooth glide. With slackened jaw, Elio undulates his hips in full speed, taking hold of the juts of Oliver’s hip. It knocks the wind out of Oliver. The inside of Oliver head gets scrambled beyond measures as he feels several contradicting sensation. The stretch of his muscle, still too tight to take entirety of Elio’s girth. The omega’s breath gets caught, each time Oliver tries to take in more air; because the alpha’s length make him feel like Oliver is being punched on his diaphragm from deep within. This is definitely, unquestionably a delectable ache. The high coursing through Oliver’s body is beyond any existing words could properly describe. As Oliver feels the base of Elio’s erection bulge up, everything fades: the sound of traffic outside, whirring noise of electronics, the cycling creaks of the bed frame; even the somewhat of filthy slapping sound of sweat sheened skin-to-skin. All Oliver hears is the rough breaths of Elio. And, his heart thrums hard, against his ribcage.

_I’ll be just as happy even if I die like this._

.

Oliver doesn’t remember falling asleep. He remarks to himself as he sluggishly gathers his senses, still dazed, fighting the sensation of him being submerged under water. He must have passed out. His body feels like he was hit by a truck. His eyelids felt sticky and heavy. His fingers feel stiff and puffy. What grounds Oliver is a muffled sniffle. Then he registers a gentle touch on his skin.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Elio says quietly, pulling away with a little start.

“Hey––,” Oliver smiles, “hi.”

“Can I–, Do you want me to get you anything?” asks Elio low, running his forearm across his face.

Oliver softly shakes his head once, propping himself up by the elbow and gathers his surroundings. Elio has been tending to Oliver. On a bamboo bath tray, there are several baby bath cloths, stained in different sheds of pink, and a first aid kit. A comforter is balled up in a pile by the door. Six pillows are strewn around the foot of the bed, on the floor.

The dark curls sighs deeply through his nose, pausing at Oliver’s wrists.

“hey…,” Oliver calls warmly, “I’m okay,” assuring him tenderly though his voice sounds grittier than normal.

When the blond tries to sit up, he grimaces hard, feeling the sharp pain. Then, he notices several spots in dark red on the sheet. As his vision gains more focus, Oliver sees the aftermath. Several long lines of scrap on his inner thighs: some are raised, others are bruised in scarlet, teeth marks on his lower abdomen: a couple deeper than the others, hand prints on his forearms: one on his left is in deep purple, rings and rings of angry red friction burn around his wrist. Surprisingly, all of that do not hurt as much. Oliver reaches his hand over his shoulder. Sure enough, the skin around their bond mark is freshly broken. His heart quickly swells with gratitude.

Oliver squints his eyes a little to see the digits of the clock, on the bedside table: 8:47 PM. _Only three hours. I must have been tired_.

“It’s... tomorrow,” Elio adds sullenly, barely more than a whisper, as if he read Oliver’s mind. Then, he heedfully carries on his deft touches with his fingers to put more ointment on Oliver’s bruised skin. Another sniffle.

“Elio,” Oliver calls gently.

“mhm~,” replies Elio, without meeting his eyes.

“Here–,” says Oliver softly, stretching out his hand.

Elio lifts his gaze. On Oliver’s softly edge-curled palm and then on his eyes. His unruly curls that fell over his bright hazel eyes are magnificent. His still flushed, chiseled cheek bones are as lovely as ever. Even the defeated, hunched shoulder of his husband looks ever more perfect.

When Elio doesn’t move, Oliver requests again.

“Come,” a smile softly blooming on Oliver face, “come kiss me and hold me.”

Elio blinks once, slowly. Oliver dips his head lightly, the edges of his eyes forming smile lines.

The dark curls pushes himself up, off the floor, and Oliver’s gaze and head follow his movement. Instead of coming to Oliver, Elio carries the bath tray back to the bathroom. So, Oliver pulls his legs under the sheets. Everything hurts but his husband was smart enough to bite him again, as the bonded mate’s saliva contains mated pair tailored analgesics and anti-inflammatories.

A few moments later, Elio pads out quietly, carrying something between his hands, holding it like a precious artifact. Oliver’s lips part, taking a sharp inhale as he immediately recognizes it.

Elio heaves his chest and sits down next to Oliver without words, carefully placing the object between them.

.

◊◊◊◊◊◊

**Three. Now, Always, and Forever**

_I don’t think it ever went away_.

It was something Elio had said to Oliver in passing, long time ago, a couple of weeks after Ellis’ escape to Elio incident. Elio had one too many, that evening, after a benefit. The moment, tense and delicate as it was, making him say things he’d never quite admitted to himself and could still not wager it to be entirely true. Though Elio may never remember he uttered those truths to Oliver, it landed right on his chest and didn’t need to be repeated out loud.

Karim, Elio’s best friend from college turned his publicist, mentioned it, too. As he witnessed firsthand, how Elio was back then, how he had such a hard time letting Oliver go. Though Karim has never, and still doesn’t believe in such things like spirituality and forces beyond humans understanding rhetoric, he has been dead-certain about Oliver and Elio’s connection. His words were, “case and point: Ellis, should I say more?”

.

The NYU had some internal session that didn’t involve Elio’s department. A free day. So, Elio figured that he’d help out with house husbandry, as he has been spoiled all his life having Mafalda and Anchise. He whistled as he did the laundry, steam-mopped the laminated floor, put away Olive’s toys as Ellis took after her mama when it comes to tidying things up. When he was done folding up the laundry, Elio was happy he had enough time to intercept his two adorable kids, before they get on the school bus. It felt like he was finally acting like a big man around this quaint home. As he was about to place the freshly laundered clothes in their walk-in closet of the master bedroom, Elio’s eyes caught a small wooden box behind the ironing board. He didn’t think much of any, as he brought it down. Even when he attentively opened the box, humming under his breath, he didn’t imagine what-was-about-to-happen would happen. The lacquered antique brown wooden box was about ten by seven by four. Inside it, there was a couple of young infant garments, three old-fashioned Polaroid pictures and a thoughtfully folded letter. All faded and beige-tinted with time, the tissue paper and straw strings, that appeared to be the inner wrapper of this gift, were there, too. As if without them, it wouldn’t be whole; Oliver kept all the priceless pieces, holding that very moment in time of Oliver’s life. Elio was utterly intrigued: so he reached for the letter. Elio recognized the hand writing, immediately. It’s a hand written letter from Pro. More than a decade ago. The creases of his father’s favored tree-free paper looked like the letter has been opened and closed so many times.

.

The date it was written was a time Elio was in his first year at _Conservatoire de Paris_. Elio felt a tight twist coiling deep in his gut.

Within three separate snapshots Oliver captured, each articles of Pro’s gift clothing had a note, in his expert handwriting;

On pastel green baby blanket, onesie and two pairs of newborn socks: \ one for those tiny hands, one for those petite feet. As you can see, I forewent on the traditional binary ‘pink and blue’ and I think you’d appreciate my reasoning. \

On a double layered, edged embroidered hanky: \ This one was Elio’s favorite, He suckled on it when he was teething. \

On a short sleeve maroon polo-shirt: \ he would never know this has gone missing. \

.

After that cold evening, Oliver refusing to lie under the sheet, and tittered communication between them that followed, Elio was balls deep in hate-fucking everyone. Of course, the young man was careful not to do it around the campus area and the city of Milan or Crema. All Elio knew then was the notion of being betrayed; being abandoned for an older female alpha by his first love. He (absolutely and positively) had no idea that Oliver made the decision for the sake of him. Even though it was Oliver who had everything to lose: his career, his government ward status, and his life– if the pregnancy progressed as the gathered data signified (higher mortality rate for both omegan mother and the infant, staggering rate of miscarriage & premature birth). If it wasn’t for Karim, who found Elio in the dingy alley, two in the morning, high on MDMA, all his learned censorship, inhibitions, and restrictions chemically lifted off, about to be taken advantage of, by two burly French alphas, Elio wouldn’t know whether he’d have survived the rest of his uni years. The realization on all those stupid things that his younger self did, willingly elected to participate, back then, for unequivocally no reason, under false assumption and groundless conjecture, made him sick. The abysmal anger broiled savagely from his core. And the fact that Elio could tell, even in his father’s concise letter, that Oliver was in really delicate condition, with their unborn child. The fury, the hate, the resentment erupted from within. Elio was bitter. It was beyond offensive. He coughed up thick bile. Elio sighs loudly, almost like a howl, pulling on his hair.

_Merde–, Le Salaud!_

_Encule pas cher! Merde!_

.

Elio couldn’t recall how he was able to isolate himself in the master suit. Because his frontal lobe took over him so ruthlessly, all he wanted was to rip something, anything. Every cell of his body screamed with rage, Elio didn’t know a human could feel. He doesn’t remember hearing the front door open and close. He sequestered all of his focus on the safety of Ellis and Olive. And the rest–––;

Well… the sordid beyond a word ‘chaos’ could explain 24 hours-or-so came and went.

.

As soon as Oliver sees what Elio is holding, he connects the dots. Even his initial ponder of how Elio had the baby wash cloths on the tray, just a few minutes ago. Oliver thought he kept it away, well enough. He wasn’t deliberately hiding them from Elio. They are just too precious and too real for him to have it around, out in the open. Because, Oliver knew he’d experience a spectrum of emotions, unfiltered, all at once, and he’d turn into this huge messy maudlin of an old sap.

“I couldn’t…” Oliver takes a shaky breath, swallowing his sobs, “I just couldn’t put these on Mini,” another pause as a shuddering breath leaves his chest, “I was afraid…,” a short tempered sigh, “terrified, I would lose everything, once I… when she...” he trails off as tears well up on Oliver’s eyes, “wears them.”

Oliver fills Elio in on the details of carrying Ellis, the part he rather warily left out when he shared this very story, a few years ago. How long it took for Oliver to realize he was with a child. Even intellectually being aware of the unfortunate circumstance he suffered that summer (the US customs confiscating his RX subcutaneous shots before departure without notifying Oliver), Oliver bolshily kept his belief that he wasn’t in heat on that midnight and the two weeks that followed. How he considered him being sick as catching a weird bug, after arriving back in States. Even when Nic earnestly mentioned that it could be a separation reaction (as the symptoms matched) which Oliver denied. Because he didn’t know, until eight years later, Oliver imprinted on Elio.

“How stupid I was,” continues Oliver, “no one teaches you those things, you know. An omega can imprint on an alpha under an extreme situation, without being bonded or even mated. They say it's rare. but... I thought I was handling my abrupt lack-of-suppressants that summer quiet well,” he chuckles to himself.

Elio presses his lips together, quietly reaching out to thread his fingers with Oliver’s last two digits on his lap.

“This…,” Oliver gives a little squeeze on the small garment, as he huffs out a small sigh, “this was the only thing that helped.”

Oliver carries on and tells his dear spouse what his OB/GYN told him on his too-long-delayed first visit, him realizing not knowing what a heat was for his own experience then, and the fact that being under suppressant his entire life was the reason why Oliver didn’t sense the change in his body. Who knew an omega can ovulate without the noticeable on-set of being in full heat. How he refused to build a nest, the reason behind it, being bed-ridden with his nose buried in gift Pro sent, especially Elio’s dark red shirt.

When Oliver visited that winter, Pro gently pulled him over to his study and inquired about Oliver’s condition. How he confessed he thought he was hiding it well. Pro chuckled fondly. How Oliver asked him not to share that knowledge with Elio, and Pro kindly requested him for some time to consider and to talk it over with Mrs. P.

Oliver wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, as a stray tear trails down his face.

“I made Nic swear that I would not be called any variation of mother,” adds Oliver with all teeth smile, huffing out a big exhale.

“Oh, man–, but she refused to come. Maybe she knew in her own way that I did carry some resentment toward her. Three long days of dry heaving and in-between contraction delirium, Nic went and called for a c-section. Doctors didn’t want to risk opening up an omega, saying that I’m well developed to have a natural birth. But Nic wasn’t having any.”

Too many omegas died on the operating table during c-section, as backed by more than three decades of statistics. Hospitals and governments (both state and federal) tried their absolute best to not get involved in such occurrence, as much as possible; as the population of male omegas has been very small. Plus, though it might sound antiquated, no one dared to argue with an alpha with a child on the way. That was the norm then, even in 21st century and in some southern states in U.S., the alphas have more rights than any other gender, even the legislation protects that segregated rights.

Oliver shares how he felt everything: the pressure of scalpel on his skin down the side of his ribs, doctors and nurses hands in his opened body cavity. Elio couldn’t help but to wince. Oliver quickly assures him that he didn’t feel the pain. Then, he continues with how surprised he was that it only took 30 minutes for doctors to get Mini out.

“Once they handed me her into my arms, she was looking right at me. With her giant hazel eyes. Crinkly little thing with her head full of your dark brown curls,” Oliver glances up at the wall. The priceless moment in time, the very picture of newborn Ellis wrapped around in a baby blanket, in Oliver’s arm, is nestled among all other wonderful memories of them.

Oliver brings Elio’s hand into a proper grip and confesses how sorry he is, and sincerely repeats he wasn’t intentionally hiding it from Elio, that if he knew Elio finding this out-of-the-blue could cause such a level of stress to have him rut.

Elio stays quiet, just gazing into Oliver’s blue eyes. He then slowly fills his lungs and leans into the curve where Oliver’s neck and shoulder meet.

Their chests fill and empty in complete sync. Elio hears Oliver's heart, so does Oliver, of Elio’s.

Oliver slowly tilts his head and nuzzles his cheek on Elio’s curls.

Elio takes a slow yet content inhale through his nose, filling his lungs with the gorgeous scent of his beautiful omega. And he says, against Oliver’s warm skin:

“Now, always, and forever.”

.

| | | End SPECIAL FEATURE SEGMENT | | |

* * *

[ Text Version of Prof. Perlman's Letter ]

Dear Oliver–, My Son:  
I am glad that you are settling in well with your new life, with Nic. She is undoubtedly a joy. And quite a match for you, too.  
I wanted to take a moment to send “proper” congratulations from the bottom of my heart.  
In my family, there is a tradition. Each time a great news such as the occasion arrives, in our home, the mother of the family looms and sews a little gift for the upcoming new family member. I have been out of practice, and had to elicit some help from our dear Mafalda but–, I hope you’d like it.  
When I was with Elio, my two tri-masters were dreadful, to put it mildly. I must admit, though bringing Elio into this world was the singularly most divine experience I’ve ever had, those six months were really difficult for me. Now that I think back, maybe it was the reason why we didn’t dare to have another. The only thing that helped was Annella and her scent. So, being fully aware of the possibility that it may cause you more sorrow than relief, I’m also sending something. I truly hope this helps.  
I solely wish that you trust me when I say this: what you two had was beautiful. And I respect your choice as I know it is from a careful, long, and hard consideration.  
So,  
Annella and I, will honor what you asked of us.  
With all our LOVE,  
Samuel

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Always, \Thank you/ for reading, your time and interest.  
> .  
> It is time for you to realize how powerful you are. The very agency and the sacred sovereignty of being just as you are as an individual and as a being with-n-of in relation to others should be yours to determine. It is time for you to take back the power from those who have been heinously misused, irresponsibly exploited, and meticulouly capitalized to enrich their pockets and agendas disguised in veiled-n-cunning language, cacophony of noises, and flashy images. Light your heart, ignite your soul: you know who you are. And understand you are from love, by love, of love. Not the commercialized, hyper-Hollywood-tized version but the very significance of life force – the truest essence and the purest form that knows no boundaries, no limit; your body will thank you for it. Stay well, stay healthy: mind, body, and soul.  
> .  
> 


	15. Extra Sum'n times Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [Harlech1000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harlech1000/pseuds/Harlech1000): a request made via a comment.  
> ; the request prompt read, "...[s]o maybe you could get inspired to write about both Oliver’s pregnancies - the differences between Nicole’s handling of it and Elios... ." And me-brain took the liberty of looming out this long-breathed story mainly focused on how Elio experienced it. As undoubtedly, it was the very first papa experience (or an expecting father role) for him.  
> .  
> Oliver’s second pregnancy: Oliver being Oliver, just like that summer, he was calm as he could be while Elio did his usual mental gymnastics about Oliver’s new condition. Of course, Elio was oblivious as to the whys and hows of Oliver's NBAC (natural birth after c-section) was possible from the first place. (hint: his love and care, most importantly, their ever-increasing trust on one another and their deepening bond regardless of what was happening around their life.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: **G**  
> .  
> Even though the overall arc and the bigger chunk of this little addition came so easy, transcriber-me had to do extraneous amount of research. Thank goodness for Youtube and those who documented what may have once been considered mostly private and often TMI in olden days, (in truth and in its extent, a crucial part of the human life cycle) which was only privy-ed to medical professionals, specialists, and mid-wives throughout various cultures. *hunching over, and frail-y pounding a gently clasped fist over on the lower back, searching for a walking cane with a subdued groan* I’ve gained a lot, and I do mean _a lot_ of respect to mothers who have endured and welcomed the whole 'pregnancy and the birthing process,' especially, those who became so Zen despite the level of physical pain.

It was the darnest thing. Elio heaved a sigh deep into his palms, as he ran both his hands over his face, one after the other. Need to shave, eh~? The voice inside his head echoed. Elio never imagined not knowing what to expect about the changes in Oliver’s condition. Mountains of information about pregnancy that existed in this earth (even in this high tech, post-modern society, urghh) provided _none what so ever_ about the late male omega pregnancy. Elio sighed again.

Elio knew Oliver had been on birth control regimen: the subcutaneous ones. He described it as a very tiny prick (comparable that of a diabetes autopen needle) when the alpha absentmindedly walked in on him one evening. It wasn’t like he was intentionally hiding. He was just not so pronounced about his routines that were bodily in nature, unlike some people who enjoyed TMI by loudly announcing each bowl movement whether be it a solid one or in gaseous forms (note the plural as his messy brain was indicating for both i. up: the burps, and ii. bottom: the farts). Truth be told, as far as the given subject between them, they had already seen and marveled at their extreme closeness during that summer in M, at the hotel. The unshaken as-if the-time-had-never-passed habit of Oliver wanting to pee after Elio did stayed (saving unnecessary water waste and satisfying his odd kink about their bodily fluid, of any kind, mixing together even at the end of their cycles). Yet, finding Oliver perched on the long edge of the bath tub, with his undershirt pulled halfway up the torso, the edge of the fabric bitten lightly between his teeth came as a new experience on that day. Blink, blink, Elio’s body reacted. And he caught a little blush on his omega’s cheeks when Elio simply proceeded to sit himself down on top of the lid of their toilet without words; all curious, his eyes alight, wanting to know how that part of Oliver’s routine worked. Even after having Mini, Oliver didn’t gain much maternal weight. Quite understandable since he religiously kept up with his love for morning jog. Though people often said (and believed) that physiological changes were normal for any gender who gave birth to their youngling(s). With a tiny huff, Oliver dropped his gaze back to where they were, prior to Elio’s unscheduled appearance, and pinched the skin on his lower tummy (a taut, lean with barely-there-body-fat Elio loved kissing and lavished his tongue over each time they were alone) before he pushed the flat of a dainty round applicator against there. With an ephemeral click (a noise significantly quieter than the common retractable pen-click), the deed was done: just like that.

“Cool,” Elio remembered himself musing at the whole thing, though however brief that was. After disposing the empty syringe into a small rectangular maroon-red medical waste container by his feet, his mate leaned forward and pushed his softly clenched knuckle on the alpha’s lower jaw — his eyes forming gorgeous smile lines. The hazel eyes tucked his chin a tad, (taking full advantage of his alpha reflexes) and encased Oliver’s large hand into his palms, before laying a long smooch on the back of his fingers. The blond simply huffed quietly under his breath.

.

Indeed, they discussed about having more babies. Not just in passing but seriously. And Oliver was quite receptive about Elio’s desire of having more younglings of their own. An alpha thing.

Yet, Elio was the one who had been busy. For some reason, as soon as he welcomed being with Oliver (more accurately, the alpha unreservedly _celebrated_ their reunion), good things started to pour into his life. First, it began with his career. Even Karim, his best friend from their uni years who turned his publicist, grumbled with a teeth-wide smile about how busy he became, how much trouble he was having to keep up with the speed of Elio’s recognition took off. Not just the demand for his tour and unexpected requests for speaking arrangements, but also lectures, and so on. Second, totally unanticipated growth within him as a father of Ellis somehow became apparent; not only in his personal life but overall as whomever he’d meet almost unanimously began to notice and speak about it in lines with 'you look happy,' 'something good must have happened recently,' just to mention a couple. Maybe the stability that a wholesome union with the title of a family-man was the true origin of it all. But he felt grounded, extremely, unlike the past eight years that he’d felt he was drifting and surviving: like a coma.

Retrospectively, he did know. On the night of their close family-n-friends small wedding ceremony, Oliver was rather feverish and more acquiescent. The way he leaned and nuzzled, the way his touches lingered, all was far more intimate and exceptionally exquisite. As an alpha, he was very familiar with _his_ typical alpha tendencies, all his life. Even though, the outwardly expression of his secondary gender traits were belonged to that of a late bloomer, he knew in where his specific desires lie and on what types of them he wanted filled. The revelation of his gender specific possessiveness, once he stumbled upon Oliver at that afternoon in a busy café, was not unusual to him. Yet, on one surprising occasion he found his reflection on the mirror, a morning after sending Oliver off to his seminar across the country, Elio knew something was brewing. In that after-a-shower-fog-steamed mirror, admirable (that was the only word he felt adequate and poignant on describing how it looked to him then) symmetry of the patterns Oliver left on his collar bones the night before greeted his view. Huh, he mused, gazing into the reflected image as he ran the tips of his fingers over them. Though Oliver’s bites didn’t break his skin, the bruises bloomed in a magnificent shade of purple with distinct red teeth indentations smack-dab right in the middle was new. There were some other marks on his skin, as well, all over his body: small pink hickeys and red welts of reverse concavity as if to show whose hands were there on the back of his thighs. Keen intrigue aside, Elio felt a strange sense of ease deep in his core, of which he hadn’t expected. Then, he couldn’t help but snorting out a series of laughs. Because the good professor only marked him where Elio could cover with clothes. He walked back to the bedroom, threading his hand into his phone, and snapped a couple of pictures. Crisp sound of his bare skin brushing over a set of fabric filled the room as he dressed into his daywear for work. Then, Elio sent a string of pictures in their secret chat — of his version of _Before-n-After_ (him without shirt on, then with the shirt & without his boxers on, then with it on) with the words, ‘Ta-da~, just like magic: our little secrets. *wink emoji* Boyscout much?’ And despite the time differences from the east coast to the west, the reply read: ‘something for you to remember me by, until I come home *kissy face* *eggplant emoji*.’

Because of their bond, Elio was the one who noticed the shift in Oliver’s scent, afore his mate even knew (or realized) he was pregnant with their second child. And the next couple of days, subtle unconscious alterations in his body language and his growing affinity to anything soft and plush followed. For Elio, it was something he was used to, as Prof. Samuel had been unabashed and quite open about his secondary gender specific physiological cycles. And how his mother, Annella, adored him and praised him for being just who he was. But seeing those unique and rare changes on Oliver was a wonder.

Yet, being a person of self-discipline (his famous ‘ _I know myself_ ’, automatic eye-roll with a Northern Italian gesture even in the alpha's own private reverie), Elio had to reconcile with the stark circumstance; that he must respect Oliver and his own autonomy. The celebration of their future second child included: full stop. And the patience Elio thought he had plenty of was running dangerously low, by the time the third week since he first smelled a lovely scent on his omega arrived.

.

It was just another Friday evening.

Elio carried on their tradition of picking him up at the local delicatessen shop. This time, he was waiting for him outside. Across the street, the alpha cocked his head a little, as his upper body motioned forward eager to shorten the distance.

“Hey~,” Elio greeted, his peppy steps slowing down as he leaned up and pressed his lips over Oliver’s.

His omega extended his arm and almost scooped him up into a tight embrace, his teeth capturing Elio’s lower lip with a delectable soft graze. Elio’s eyes widened as the voice in his head chimed, ‘this is new.’

“Someone had a good day?” Elio looked up at him through his curls.

A single hum resonated at the bottom of Oliver’s throat, carding his large palm over his alpha’s unruly ringlets around the temple. For some reason, he looked nervous.

“Is everything okay?” Elio asked cheerfully, keeping his usual nonchalance.

Oliver mhmmed with a single nod and his lower jaw let fall, only to close back up.

“What is it?” Elio asked tilting his head a tad, his eyes bright and encouraging.

The blond’s shoulders lifted as he sucked in a large lungful, “I… I just came back from the doctor and–”

Elio’s eyes were darting softly over Oliver’s, searching for the possible end of his sentence, waiting for him to finish conveying his meaning.

“I’m pregnant,” Oliver quickly ducked his head, blushing.

The alpha gasped. No sounds came out. He saw Oliver’s face go still, though with his usual enigmatic poker face still intact, Elio could tell his mate was worried. How adorable he was, Elio thought.

“Oh, my~,” with the widest grin blooming instantly, as if the typical background sound effect of a heavenly being had just descended upon his world with the white backlight of halo glowing, Elio couldn’t help but to shake his head, lightly, in blissful disbelief.

“Please no ‘ _we_ are pregnant’ stuff,” almost like a hush, Oliver rapid-fired the words, trying to alleviate the tension he presumed that was hanging between them.

“Never!” Elio broke out into a belly laugh, “Hah–ah! oh, Wow!” he hooted before he almost lunged forward to kiss him passionately.

Oliver’s widened eyes (the widest they had ever been, for as long as Elio had known him) darted over Elio’s eyes with a level of anxiety Elio never saw him display. Even during their lips smooching over one another, the alpha couldn’t hold back his elated laughs. It took them a while before they separated. Being in the middle of New York, despite Oliver’s unnecessary worry, no one was paying attention to them.

Catching his breaths between his kiss swollen glistening lips, Oliver timidly asked, “…are you sure you are okay with…?”

What a question. He must have been taking things apart with his usual practicality, Elio gathered in his head. Of Elio’s continuously on-the-climb career, Oliver being significantly older than the general age-group for him to be pregnant, the logistics of things, the possible changes they would need to make, et cetera, et cetera. Yet, all Elio could think was his inexhaustible level of exhilaration. It felt as though he had just won the whole world. Oh, right, he clicked his lofty head back to reality. And, like that afternoon almost ten years ago, at the back alley of the downtown B, Elio took a step up at the ledge of the store front and leaned up close to Oliver, putting his palm against the wall next to Oliver’s ear;

“I’d pick you up bridal style, right here, right now, if I could.”

A revised version of their speak in Elio's confidential voice. He even remembered the very words he once boldly whispered into Oliver's ears then, as they walked into the post office: _Fuck me, Elio_. How victorious he felt as Oliver shivered under his touch at his words that day.

Oliver chuckled under his breath, ducking his chin a little. At a shared memory of their past replaying in both men’s heads, Elio saw Oliver doing his best to subdue his shudder, that was unmistakably coursing through his body. And when Elio pressed his lips on Oliver’s redder than usual lips, the omega leaned into him, breathing out a long feverish sigh of relief. Yes, it took a few more expansive minutes for these two to separate.

Palm to palm, their fingers interlaced, the alpha nudged his upper arm against Oliver’s as they began walking, “I can’t wait to tell Ellie!”

Oliver ran the inside of his fingers over his mouth, “Can we uh… wait until… I’m showing?”

Oh–

“I… I don’t want her to get disappointed,” Oliver shifted his eyes, his concerns brimming over his mind.

Right, Elio checked himself in his head. Oliver probably read up on the reported percentage of miscarriage based on the age of mothers. And the dutiful OB/GYN most indubitably let him know of a list of complications that could happen considering not just his age but also his secondary gender.

“Of course,” Elio said it with resolve, rumbling his chest to tap into their bond, “yes, whatever you think it’s best,” and gave their interlaced grip a reassuring squeeze.

.

It was positively astonishing to Elio. Because most of the reading materials and the testimonials (?) of other mothers he could get his hands on pointed to the more than likelihood of Oliver suffering morning sickness during his first trimester. Whether his magnificent omega hid it well, or simply the genetics, the hazel eyes didn’t notice him vomiting or heaving his stomach with nausea.

When Oliver asked, with his usual matter-of-fact tone, whether Elio would want Oliver to either reduce his teaching hours or something more, the alpha took it as a personal offense. It was an odd reaction, to think back of it.

“No~,” he objected rather forceful, in a harsh ‘when have I ever given you an impression that I’m _that_ kind of alpha?’ tone without ever meaning to.

With a soft huff, Oliver nodded quietly, running his large palm over Elio’s upper arm, gently coaxing him to calm down. The dark curls dumped out his chest at that, with a half roll of his eyes, not forgetting to pout with a brief side-stare.

.

Once his tall, fair, and handsome mate announced the upcoming addition to their tight-neat family to young Ellis (she danced and squealed happily, insisting that she was certain she was going to have a little brother), another change occurred in their little paradise on earth. As he came out from his practice room (two hours went by in a blink of an eye), he heard a series of distinct noise coming from the kitchen. It was almost mid-night. Odd, Elio cocked his head, running his fingers through his unruly hair, slowly letting the fatigue catch up to him. When he turned the corner, what he saw was a sight that made him chuckle with glee. Under a dim light, Oliver was sitting at the breakfast nook, one of his legs bent over forming a wide angle, resting his ankle on top of the other knee, his fingers were shelling the pistachios as quietly as he could. His mouth closed, his jaws moving rhythmically as he chewed and savored the flavor, so focused only on his current two separate processes. Contently cocooned in his own little world. When his nose picked up Elio’s scent, his gaze lifted up giving the head of household a closed lipped wide smile. The hazel eyes went to him and laid a firm kiss on the crown of his head. The omega offered a handful, brushing the pinky-edge of his palm on the table, neatly gathering a pile of empty shells and the crumbled inner skin of green nuts. And he voluntarily explained that he wanted to have some Danish butter cookies and chocolates but he knew better.

“This is much healthier,” Oliver added proudly, still munching on, like a cute koala.

The next day, Elio gladly took the hassle of fighting the traffic across town and went to a local store that carried the kinds of chocolate Oliver once mentioned in passing as ‘to die for.’ No, his omega didn’t request it as both knew they were extremely busy with their lives. Not just with work but their conscious effort of always trying to spend as much time with each other and Mini.

The sunset was coloring the city scape of New York in a rare gradient of scarlet when Oliver pressed the keycode on their front door. The blond smiled to himself, hearing his husband hard at his practice; even at the part where he kept going back to the same notes and phrases of the piece, over and over. After sharing the daily usual run-through with Ellis, Oliver found neatly arranged row of small brown bags, on their dining table. His face instantly lit up, recognizing what they were. When he walked toward them, Oliver couldn’t help but to sigh, beaming.

\ ‘got you the farmers’ market Apricot juice: in the door of the fridge.’ \

(Rumor has it that Elio was rewarded with yet another commemoration of their bond with a great sex that night.)

.

A season changed and Oliver started wearing maternity slacks of which their daughter Ellis loved putting her cheek on and nuzzled over whenever she could. The elastic rubber band made it nicer (?) and easily accessible for her curious hands each time she wished to talk to her brother. Along with Oliver’s prolonged liking of pistachio nuts, the omega strangely gravitated to green olives. He grimaced, though not as overtly, when Elio accidently bought a jar of red-wined Kalamata olives. Yes, they are usually unmistakable as the colors are a distance apart: one green, the other purple. His hand must have unintentionally reached for it instead, while checking the quick pick-up list after work. Because in the shelf, Oliver’s favorite kind of green olives were displayed right next to it.

“I’m sorry,” Elio offered, biting down his logical explanation which he knew would only get across as an excuse. Even considering the fact that the brine was red-wine that may have confused him was not sufficient enough of a reason for a mistake (the should not have happened), in his head. Because the green olives Oliver craved was in clear salt solution. Not vinegar nor white-wine. Hence, absolutely no excuses. And it was Mini who gave him ‘the talk,’ making Oliver laugh under his breath, him purring gorgeously. What a life, Elio breathed in slow with a happy smile.

.

At the end of Oliver’s second trimester, there were more evenings Elio found his mate sitting at the corner of his practice room. Settled with his back straight, padded only by the vertically placed pillow he carried back and forth each time from the master bedroom, Oliver’s seated precious bum was only supported by a neatly folded comforter. Elio didn’t think much about it as Oliver quietly graded his students’ paper on his laptop, enjoying his husband's company.

It took a video call with his dear mother, Annella, to realize something he should have outright recognized.

/ “Oh, mon amore,” / Annella said over the screen, / “he is nesting.” /

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! He chided himself, couldn’t bury his face in his hands deep enough, while Annella tried her best to console and enliven him with recommendations based on her experience.

Right after his thumb pressed the ‘end call’ button on his smart device, Elio was engulfed with one directive in mind. Three days later, when the alpha came home, he found their ten-year-old daughter laughing out happily, rolling over not-yet-opened piles and mountains of cushions and pillows. The living room was like a plush version of ball pool for Ellis. Near the threshold of their kitchen stood Oliver: too overwhelmed, mildly stunned, yet completely speechless. And the hazel eyes gathered that the delivery must have just happened, if not a few moments before he came home.

After a lengthy negotiation (as usual with Mini not Oliver), that Elio agreed to return almost the half of the purchases. And not-at-all surprisingly, Oliver pulled Elio’s hand over his growing belly, letting his alpha spoon him that night with no reprimand or talking-to whatsoever.

.

Mini who always had an endless affinity to how language works began suggesting baby names. Though three already were calling with a nickname, ‘Olive.’ As the end of spring drew near, Elio began finding himself coming to a frigid cold home. Ellis thoroughly enjoyed having multiple cups of hot chocolate after school while Elio was having so much trouble adjusting to the temperature difference. Having grown up in Italy most of his life, summer needed to be _summer_ : sweltering and hot. As him adjusting to New York metropolitan summer didn’t affect him as much, this was a very novel experience. Prof. and Annella had huge laughs over on their regular video call seeing their only son bundle up in that state as if he was in arctic, while Oliver was wearing less than what he wore during the summer he spent in the villa in B all those years ago. That day, the omega was wearing yellow. Elio surreptitiously shifted his eyes whenever the subject glided over Oliver’s condition and the temperature.

.

Oliver successfully ended his spring semester without a scare. And he didn’t shy away from teaching his summer courses in NYU as he had been for the past few years, until the day of his labor. It was Elio who didn’t know what to expect. In the dead of the night, the alpha was woken up ever so gently. Though he landed in JFK international only a couple of hours before, returning from Taiwan after a concert he could no longer postpone, the hazel eyes was definitely having trouble pushing away his sleep. Oliver continued on his quest of getting him to wake up, between his shortening intervals of intensifying contractions, adding that his water just broke. Half-awake, quite disoriented with the jetlag, Elio couldn’t quickly remember where to locate the go-bag, all the while Oliver was so calm and composed, doing his breathing exercises, calling Uber in his usual clear and concise manner.

Thankfully, they arrived at the hospital safely without any undue event or happenings. Oliver made sure to wipe away the crusty sleep away from Elio’s bloodshot eyes (he apologized profusely, his lips kissing endlessly to make up for his dismal state). The female driver with thick southern accent was kind enough to tender her help for Elio, not forgetting to congratulate them both.

The OB/GYN rushed in, in her evening gown with full done-up hair, and explained with ever-so calm voice that it was the baby’s mother’s genetics as the more than understandable reason (that she most certainly believed) why Oliver was going into labor a couple of days early. Oh, Elio was finally able to pause, digesting her words: right, long and tall. And for some incomprehensible reason, the sweat sheened Oliver declined the epidural. Elio could only blink at that decision. Making sure Mini was up-to-date, since she was having a sleep over at Nic’s parents’ home (her date with their old cat named Custard), he reentered the suite.

Unbeknownst to Oliver, Elio took a seminar that was designed for expecting parents. The event organizer pulled him aside telling him that of the years he had been offering the service, Elio made the very small pool of alphas, asking whether he was strongly suggested to come here. The dark curls shook his head, scratching the back of his head. The doula double-confirmed whether he was up for it before placing the wet electro-pads around his abs and (kuh hum) under his private area. Elio was very firm on getting a close-to-real glimpse of how the birthing contraction would be like.

The alpha never known himself to be a wuss. And he believed being an alpha automatically meant that his body came equipped with high pain tolerance. How wrong he was. Elio exclaimed in pain and he didn’t know he could scream like that.

“That was only level three,” the technician clarified, trying their best not to laugh at him and his pain.

So, it was more than justifiable for Elio, sob-less tears drawing over his cheeks, witnessing Oliver going through ever increasing and quickly shortening intervals of contraction. Wiping his forearms over, sniffling;

“I’m useless, aren’t I?” Elio confessed, frowning deep.

Oliver shook his head, taking the ice chip from his alpha’s fingers. And what he heard next, Elio would never forget.

“Though I am really grateful for how Nic,” he paused for contraction to wave through him with a heavily puckered brows, swallowing the grunts, breathing in sharp, yet deep and short ‘hoo-hoo’s through his parched lips, “though I knew Nic did her best as her role of a guardian, I was closed off. You can say that I didn’t let her in as much as she wanted me to. Because…” another surge of contraction hit him and Elio didn’t let go of his hand, though his fingers were turning white, his peripheral nerves shooting tiny pricks of electricity, as Oliver squeezed his hand over as tight as the intensity of his contraction, “because there could only be one person, for my stubborn head. I never nested. To tell you the truth, I fought against it. As I was the one who left you behind, blaming and hiding and justifying myself with the societal and cultural bullshit, and believing that I ought to be the grown-up to offer you a chance in life as any independent alpha should get.”

Elio was speechless. He didn’t know. As the nesting instinct was something that was integral-n-crucial, not to mention natural, and supposed to be celebrated by a mother-to-be omega, no matter how rare the percentage of omegan population has been. The never-been told story Oliver kept all these years wrenched Elio’s heart.

Before Oliver was able to finish, a crew of OB/GYN nurses and med-techs walked in. And Oliver lifted his hand bearing down yet another rush of contraction, requesting Elio to accompany him. The one who appeared to the lead of the team quietly passed on the omega’s request in a hushed tone, leaning against the doctor.

“Alright,” was all the OB/GYN said as she kept up the pace with the rolling hospital bed who happened to tie up her evening gown around her waist with a make-shift ties, her face covered with clear full-face visor over a layer of pink surgical mask, putting her arms through a reverse surgical gown.

And with a tilt of her head, the male med-tech placed his purple gloved hand over Elio’s shoulder and led him to a prep-room. Getting dressed in a pastel green disposable medical gown, the alpha couldn’t stop himself from shaking all over. Thankfully, the med-tech didn’t comment on it.

When he entered the clean-suite, Elio found Oliver seated over the bed tilted up 45 degrees, his pale sweaty face brightening up seeing him walking in. The blond reached out his hand. And Elio rushed to him, taking hold of his hand.

“I have you,” Elio told him, leaning his forehead against Oliver’s temple. As an answer, Oliver nodded, his eyes closing shut as he breathed through what seemed to be never-ending contraction that only kept increasing in intensity.

.

The fact that he heard a loud cry of his infant landed dead-center in his heart and his entirety was washed over with the sensation, as if a lightning bolt struck through his spine was the most ecstatic experience of his life till this day. It was quickly topped by the next thing he did. The good doctor called him over with her warm sweet voice, offering a pair of sterile blunt edge shear to have him the honor of cutting their new born son’s umbilical cord. His hands were shaking. Too much for his point of view. After a huge heave of breath, his index and thumb gripped closer, feeling the sensation of the sharp edges without a filter, dividing the viscoelastic yet filled-with-stong-life round tube, in between.

“Well done, papa,” the OB/GYN remarked kindly.

.

By the time, Oliver was stitched up, Elio already held their son in his arms, repeating his nickname like a prayer, over and over. How small, light, tiny, and precious he was. He couldn’t believe himself and his reality.

When he was waved over to see Oliver again in his recovery room, Mini and Nic’s parents arrived. Lifting the rectangular screen up, (the video call from the Perlmans) Elio basked in the splendid joy.

A junior nurse came in with a baby cart, quietly shh-ing everyone adding the little prince was sound asleep. When she lifted the swaddled little Olive up in a practice ease and laid him over Oliver’s chest, the new addition of the next generation Perlman only coo-ed without waking up.

New dad Elio’s eyes filled up rather quickly with happy hot tears of which he swiped away swiftly with the edge of his thumb before he changed the camera to introduce his parents in Italy with their grandson.

| | | SPECIAL FEATURE SEGMENT FIN | | |

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ behind the scene with a bit of four-wall break ] The reader-me is quietly and shyly offering a cushy memory foam donut pillow as a baby-welcome-home gift for Oliver, feeling ever so proud of their thoughtful choice. In a meanwhile, editor-me is yawning, taking off the thick framed glasses, finally putting away the red pen, who spent almost three times as much hours than the duration transcriber-me actually took to logo-vomit this chapter, looking gaunt and sleep-deprived.  
> .  
> As Always, \Thank you/ for reading, your time and interest.  
> Light up your heart, ignite your soul, while never forgetting to self-love and self-care: mind, body, and soul.  
> .  
>  **[Special Thanks to]** : (alphabetical order as the King Arthur’s roundtable style may be a tad too dramatic LOL. This has always been my tradition, and I update this list on each fic, periodically.)  
> A_scandal_in_my_mind_palace,  
> Angela1983,  
> AnneHagen,  
> attraversiamo_2019,  
> BarkingBard,  
> Better_now,  
> blueranma10,  
> Chrisaki,  
> Crema13,  
> dancinginahurricane,  
> E_leigh_1985,  
> ElementalPea,  
> ElioOliver4Ever,  
> Glam_PT,  
> Harlech1000,  
> harrygamestrong,  
> icewine47,  
> ilovelife19,  
> Kalemnoir,  
> Kariboo,  
> Karinb,  
> Katmreitnour55,  
> Kill_the_director,  
> Kittenpurple,  
> LindaMaceMichalik,  
> lizainthesky,  
> LonkoLonchino,  
> Love20,  
> mariun,  
> MarletteMaxine,  
> MedriKylara,  
> mmm0918,  
> Nandeks,  
> NonnaUniverse,  
> ohma_cmbyn,  
> piccola_nuvola_nera,  
> Prettysadiebird,  
> quima,  
> Rrraa,  
> Rebeq8,  
> redenodersterben,  
> sarahstacy,  
> Seafishing,  
> Shellgoes211again,  
> Study_84,  
> the_pandemonium,  
> thursdaymorningatseventwenty,  
> tsunmari,  
> valexwest,  
> valgal,  
> VesperCat,  
> Volmarto,  
> Wegiemom,  
> +  
> those who subscribed, bookmarked, and all anon who sent kudos--!  
> .  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> .  
> [[why I am not on any social media](https://youtu.be/PmEDAzqswh8)]  
> .  
>  **A Little Something**  
>  ; for those of very very few who'd like to drop a suggestion or have a question about any of my drabbles (i.e. clarification, background, etc.), please click [my AO3 profile page](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leszre/profile) and you will be able to reach me.  
> .  
> | | | a Little-er Announcement | | |  
> [BY-NC-ND 4.0](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/): (the gist is...) if you wish, feel free to download and/or share my (*kuh hum* very meager) posts noncommercially, as long as you credit/source me, without any changes and/or alterations.  
> .  
> [ How to get to know me ]: ( **ONLY** if you wish) take as much advantage of the comments section, as I came to realize that I value comments more. (Please note this is my opinion and is **not** meant to offer any commentaries towards this wonderful non-commercial organization) :)  
> 


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